A Story of Pain
by Voice of Reason
Summary: Voldemorte took over the wizarding world, surprise surprise, and Hermione is forced to help rebuild his empire. Much drama and angst with Hermie, Draco, Ron, and Ginny.
1. Part I

Part I: Descent into Hell  
  
A short time after the defeat of the good wizard Dumbledore and Harry Potter by the Dark Lord.  
  
It was hot and sunny. The merciless sun beat down on all the people gathered below it, not caring who they were or what they had been through. Ronald Weasley squinted up into the cloudless sky, feeling miserably hot in his wizarding robes. Sweat trickled down his forehead and was prevented from dripping into eyes by his red eyebrows. He tried not to stare directly at the sun, as his mother had always told him if he did that then he's go blind, but right now it was hard to resist the temptation. Being blind right about now would be nice. Then he wouldn't have to see his surroundings, wouldn't have to see the tired, dirty faces of his siblings, wouldn't have to see the grief and anger etched onto all the faces around him. The same emotions that he felt inside him as well. It would be so much easier if he could just go blind and then he'd never have to look at anyone again. Even better, if he had just died with the others, then he wouldn't even have to be here. It hurt so much to look at these once proud people, now reduced to cowering in groups, afraid, grieving, broken. Sighing, he turned his gaze to the ground. It used to be a field, green and healthy, but after three days of people standing and sleeping on it, the ground was looking gray and dead. Ron tried not to think the word dead, but it happened, and then of course he thought of all those people who were dead, of his parents, of Charlie and Percy, of schoolmates, hearing them scream in agony, hearing other voices tell him his parents had been killed. It had been three days since the Dark Lord had fully returned to the wizarding world, returned with more power and numbers than he'd ever had. Before the Order could retaliate, Death Eaters released hungry Dementors upon Hogwarts. Without any warning, dozens of students were kissed before the faculty could react. The chaotic mess that followed allowed the Death Eaters to swarm Hogwarts, permitting the Dark Lord to enter and extract his justice upon Dumbledore. The Headmaster was old and foolish, trusting his school to band together in this time of need. Instead, they'd been divided by fear and suspicion, falling easy prey to Slytherins and various traitors from the other Houses who had helped the Death Eaters gain entry to Hogwarts. Later, in the dungeons, Ron had gathered from the gossip of their guards that Diagon Alley, the Ministry, and Hogsmeade had all been destroyed in one fell blow, a highly choreographed plan that named Lord Voldemort as the most powerful wizard in the world. Now, every one left alive had been herded into these prison camps, which were large empty fields surrounded by magical barriers and guarded by scores of Death Eaters, Dementors, Banshees, Vampires, Werewolves, and other dark creatures. There were two camps here, one for the pure-blood wizards and the other for the mixed-blood wizards. The Death Eaters on this side were working through huge lists of prisoners, comparing those names to the names that appeared on another list of wizards cleared to live under the new rule. Throughout the camp, huge notices had been posted detailing the process and also any new laws to keep the populace under control. Ron glanced at one in disgust, feeling anger mixed with sadness at the unfairness of it all.  
  
NOTICE: ALL WIZARDING PRISONERS WILL BE CALLED UP TO HAVE THEIR BACKGROUND AND FUTURE LOYALTY DISCUSSED. THOSE DEEMED WORTHY TO LIVE BY THE DARK LORD WILL BE ALLOWED TO LEAVE AND RETURN TO THEIR ASSIGNED PLACE TO LIVE UNDER THE NEW ORDER. MARTIAL LAW WILL NOW BE IN EFFECT. ANY WITCH OR WIZARD SEEN THREATENING A DEATH EATER WILL BE IMPRISONED, TORTURED, AND/OR KILLED. ANY WITCH OR WIZARD ATTEMPTING ANY DANGEROUS BEHAVIOR WILL BE IMPRISONED, TORTURED, AND/OR KILLED. THERE WILL BE A MIDNIGHT TO SIX CURFEW IMPLEMENTED. ANY WITCH OR WIZARD SEEN OUTSIDE DURING THESE HOURS WILL BE IMPRISONED, TORTURED, AND/OR KILLED. REMEMBER, THESE ARE NEW DAYS. YOUR OLD LIFE IS OVER. NOW YOU WILL LIVE UNDER THE DARK LORD. Lucius Malfoy, Chief of Domestic Affairs under the Dark Lord  
  
Tearing his eyes from those miserable notices, Ron swore, tasting the acrid dust and defeat in his mouth. He looked through the transparent barrier separating the two prison camps, hoping to see a familiar face. Him, Ginny, Fred, and George, all that was left of the Weasley family, had stationed themselves by the barrier, looking for friends and hoping they were still alive. He didn't know what was going on in the other camp, but from how those witches and wizards looked, it had to be worse than what he was going through. Fred and George were talking quietly to Angelina. Ron looked away from them. At least she'd been pureblood. He still didn't know if Hermione was alive, and wasn't even going to think about Harry. The thought of what a Death Eater, especially Malfoy, might do to Hermione was a constant threat to make Ron lose control and do something very stupid. Instead of thinking about his best friends, Ron was about to wander over to a clump of wizards and find out any new news from them when Ginny tugged on his sleeve. "When do you think we'll get out of here?" she asked quietly. Ron looked at his sister, saw the flame-red hair that marked her as a Weasley, saw the same hair on his dead brothers and parents in his memory. Clenching his jaw tight against memories too fresh to think about, he muttered, "I don't know, Gin. Those bloody Death Eaters seem satisfied to watch us all bake to death instead of doing anything productive." "I'm glad they're at least leaving us alone," replied his sister, looking at her hands. Ron knew what she meant. During their first day of captivity, various Death Eaters had evidently found it entertaining to torture their prisoners by putting them under the Imperius curse and forcing them do perverted things to each other. Ron's stomach still turned at what they made these two witches he didn't know do, making them perform in a sick circus act for their bored amusement. He was glad when the Death Eaters returned to their duties, but knew that their days of fun were far from over, especially with the new laws under Voldemort. It would seem that what a Death Eater said or did was law, and the rest of them had no power to protect themselves. Just thinking about the hideous injustice of what had happened to his world caused Ron to see red and tighten his fists involuntarily. He wanted to do something, wanted to start with ripping Malfoy's sneering head off his body, then proceed to beat his body into a bloody pulp. Then he would- Ginny noticed Ron's tenseness and said, "Ron-don't do anything stupid. I don't need to lose another brother." At her words, spoken quietly but with an intensity Ron didn't know Ginny had until this horrible nightmare begun, he forced himself to relax. It won't do anything to get killed now, not when Ginny needs you, he reminded himself. Sure, she had three brothers left, but both Ron and Ginny could see that Fred and George had walled themselves off from their siblings in grief. The twins and Angelina sat together now, not talking, wordlessly watching their fellow prisoners, shoulders touching in a small measure of comfort. Ron thought bleakly it would be a long time before the twins laughed again. "Stupid like when I thought I could take on those Death Eaters, you mean," he said, shaking his head. "I still can't believe you're alive. When I saw you go charging after them, I was sure you were a dead man walking." "Thanks for the confidence." Ron turned away from his sister, feeling disgust at himself for not being good enough, only mediocre. After a pause, she said, "But then, I thought we'd all die that night." Ron looked at Ginny, thinking maybe she was going to cry again. But she only met his eyes with her dry, empty ones. He said, "So did I," thinking that he remembered feeling like he was already dead and it was only a matter of time before his feet stopping running and dodging attacks. Maybe he did die and this was his afterlife, a perverse kind of private hell. "Look, Ron, it's Hermione!" Ginny whispered, interrupting his morbid thoughts, his eyes following her fingers through the barrier to see Hermione's figure coming closer to where they stood. She walked quickly over, hunched slightly, peering around to see if any of the guards were looking at her. "Hermione! You're alive!" Ron said as soon as she stepped up to the barrier to talk with a small grin framing itself awkwardly on his lips. He saw how tired and dirty she appeared and longed to reach across and pull her close to comfort her. She needed him, he could see from the tightness around her eyes, to be there for him, to make her feel safe. Ron needed Hermione now, he needed his best friend now that Harry was gone and their world had been destroyed. Hermione's brown eyes filled up with tears at his words. Ron was slightly shocked; she wasn't the type who cried all the time, but apparently the events of the past few days were enough to make anyone cry, including the strong Hermione, for her tears had already washed clean streaks down her dirty face. "Oh, Ron, I'm so glad you're alive, you and Ginny, it's just awful, it's horrible over here. They're executing all the muggle-born wizards-I don't think I'll be alive much longer, there aren't that many of us left." Ron and Ginny gasped, and tried to interrupt her, but Hermione kept talking in a breathless rush. "I don't know when they'll come and get me, I don't have much time, I didn't think I'd find you before-before-" A tear slid down her cheek and dripped off her chin as she sniffled.  
Ginny sniffled too and Ron felt his eyes fill up with tears which he ignored angrily. This was too much. How could he stand here uselessly and listen to Hermione talk about being executed any moment now? He couldn't imagine Hermione being executed, this was all to horrible to imagine, to even contemplate, let alone watch it happen. "Hermione, I-" "Shhh, I'll be ok, don't worry about me, please Ron? You have to-I-I just want you safe, ok?" said Hermione, wringing her hands together nervously. Ron swallowed hard, nodded once, then said, "Harry?" "I saw him being taken away alive." Ron nodded, so did he. "But I'm sure he'd be dead by now or something would have happened," finished Hermione. That was what he figured as well. "Then it's over, there's nothing left," said Ron, swearing at the Death Eaters, at Voldemort, at Malfoy, at life, at anything that he could touch.  
  
Once he was done, Hermione asked, "Who's alive over there?" "Fred and George are alive, the rest of our family died," answered Ginny softly. "There aren't many adults or parents or any of the professors from Hogwarts. I figure they'd all been killed outright, too much of a threat to the great Lord Voldemort," she hissed in a mocking tone. "Oh no," breathed Hermione. "That's horrible-your parents? Charlie, Bill? Percy?" Ron nodded. He couldn't speak about it, didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to hear it again inside his head. At least now I know how Harry feels-or felt, he thought dully. This was too much, there was too much death for him to deal with, he had to stop thinking about it or he'd go mad. "Granger, Hermione!" a commanding voice boomed from the other camp, softened by the barrier. Hermione whirled her head around to look at the source of the voice, then looked back at Ron and Ginny. Her eyes were large with fear and her voice shook as she said, "I love you two, please be safe." Two Death Eaters came up behind her and grabbed her arms to force her away. "Hermione!" yelled Ron, throwing himself towards the barrier, only to be stopped as Ginny pulled him away. He supposed he should be glad she'd stopped him from touching the humming barrier of magic; it would have knocked him out cold for a day. But he wouldn't mind now. At least then he wouldn't have to watch Hermione getting dragged away to her death. I'll at least give her the comfort of watching, he thought, keeping eye contact with his best friend as she was taken beyond his sight and to the execution station. After she'd disappeared from his eyes, he turned to Ginny, the grief welling up inside him extinguishing his anger for the moment. She pulled him close and together they crumpled to the ground and wept tears of sadness for a wound that would never be healed. "Gin-I can't-it's all over with now," he whispered brokenly to his sister in between his sobs. "We're still alive," she sniffed, trying to be strong for his sake, trying to dry her eyes and encourage him, trying, trying, failing. "I'd rather not be right now, Gin. Living is going to be too hard," he said to her back after he hugged her again, needing something to hold him close and staunch the free-flowing blood of grief from his broken soul. "I know," she whispered back, both of them wet with tears and sweat and blood, weeping for the loss of their family, for Hermione, for Harry, for the safety of the wizarding world.  
  
Reluctantly Hermione pulled her eyes away from where she knew Ron and Ginny stood at the barrier. She could no longer see them, so she turned her face to discover where she was being taken, even though it didn't matter. I'm going to die today, she thought bitterly, I'm going to be executed like a criminal, like some sort of pest. I won't even get the dignity of dying while fighting for something. She turned angry eyes to the trio of Death Eaters in front of her. Her two guards shoved her in front of them, pushing her roughly to the ground. Her knee came up sharply onto her chin and she bit her lip, tasting her blood. In a few minutes, I won't feel this pain anymore, she thought.  
"Hermione Granger, you are hereby charged with treason for committing a number of war crimes, including using force against the Death Eaters, known conspiracy against the Death Eaters, consorting with known criminals, consorting with criminal Harry Potter, and you are charged with being a mudblood, unfit to use a wand or magic." Through the man's speech, Hermione's mind roused itself out of her shocked state to recognize the person speaking as MacNair, the same Death Eater who tried to killed Buckbeak all those years ago. And beside him stood Crabbe and Draco Malfoy, casually twirling his wand with a wicked grin on his face. Hermione was distracted from her fervent wish to see Malfoy drawn and quartered by what MacNair had to say next.  
"You are sentenced to death by Avada Kadava immediately. Draco Malfoy will carry out the execution." MacNair leaned down to her face, so close she could smell his foul breath and see the cruelty that lurked in his eyes. "Rest in peace, you filthy mudblood."  
The guards reached for her arms again and hauled her roughly to her feet. She supposed she was supposed to face her death proudly, standing up straight, without tears in her eyes.the tears were going to have to stay though, and she didn't think she could bear to keep her eyes open, to watch Malfoy saunter over in front of her. Quickly she squeezed her eyes shut, but she could still imagine what was happening, could see it all in her mind's eye. The sounds of Malfoy's booted feet stopped; she knew he was standing in front of her, holding his wand lazily in his wand. He pulled it back, ready to flick it toward her and send green light arching out to kill her-  
"I don't think you want to do that, Draco." Another man's cold voice interrupted the mindless terror that had seized Hermione. She opened her eyes to see Lucius Malfoy appear beside his son, looking cool and comfortable in his expensive robes.  
Lucius' son immediately turned to face his father, opening his ugly mouth to ask, "What on earth are you talking about? Of course I want to kill Granger. Why wouldn't I? She deserves it, damn scum that she is."  
"Draco, I agree that Ms. Granger," Lucius sneered her name as if he was discussing bubotuber pus, eyeing Hermione idly, "is unfit to live among us, but our Lord disagrees on that aspect. It seems that our Lord would like a pet. A very clever pet."  
"A pet?" Malfoy repeated his father's words, incredulity marring his face before he once again assumed that smug look that Hermione hated when his father looked at him directly.  
"Yes, a pet. Do you have problems with your hearing, boy? Do I need to exclude you from your duty? Or do I make myself clear? Hermione Granger is not to be killed, but to be taken to a room in the lowest level and held until we have time to deal with her. You will take her there. Now." Lucius' gaze flicked from his son to Hermione's white face to Crabbe's blank stare. "I'm quite sure Crabbe and all of his meager resources can manage your job until you return, aren't you?" Malfoy followed his eyes, scowled at Crabbe, then crossed over to Hermione.  
"I understand you perfectly, father," he hissed, grabbing Hermione's arm right above her elbow hard enough to make her knees buckle. He ignored her whimper and yanked her behind him as he strode toward the table with various objects Hermione presumed were portkeys.  
As Malfoy reached for one of the portkeys, Hermione heard Lucius say, "Make sure you remember where you put the mudblood. We don't want to forget about her and have our Lord's pet die before we can teach her any tricks." Then she felt the familiar pull at her bellybutton as Malfoy seized the portkey and they disappeared from the prison camp.  
  
With a sudden lurch, Hermione reappeared with Malfoy in the entry hallway of a very large castle, she guessed, judging from the sheer size of the impressive staircase. But she hardly had time to look around before Malfoy began striding across the floor to the left hallway, dragging Hermione behind him. They walked down the hallway until Malfoy turned into a door leading into a dark staircase going down. Without paused, Malfoy went down the stairs, slamming Hermione's knee and shoulder into the doorframe.  
They went down the three flights of stairs so quickly that Hermione was afraid she was going to trip and fall, and Malfoy would let go of her to watch her fall down down down all the way to the bottom, tumbling and turning, until she broke her neck and died on the bottom stair, with Malfoy's horrid laughter as last thing she'd hear. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on what the future held, Hermione made it down the stairs without much incident.  
They turned right and walked until Malfoy stopped at a door. "Here's your room, mudblood," he said as he kicked open the door to reveal a tiny, windowless room, just big enough for a small bed and bucket in the corner. With a violent shove, Malfoy pushed Hermione into the room. She fell forward, throwing her arms out to break her fall, which wasn't a good idea as she cracked her wrists on the stone floor and slid across to bump her head on the wall.  
While she remained slumped on the floor next to the wall trying to regain her senses, Malfoy began to pace up and down inside her tiny room. She noticed that he was muttering to himself. Desperate for something to listen to, something to occupy her mind so she didn't have to think about the dull pain in her head or the bruises that she was going to get on her wrists and knees from falling, Hermione listened to him.  
"..can't believe that he'd want you alive, you're just a worthless excuse for a witch, how could he? Rob me of my fun, is that what he wants?" Malfoy was livid, she could see that. His hands were clenched so tight and Hermione thought that he was shaking with suppressed rage. She pulled her legs up to her chest and tried to quiet her breathing so he wouldn't notice her. Maybe he'll just go away, she thought desperately. Maybe he'll just ignore this quivering lump of a person and go back to killing innocent people.  
"Well," Malfoy said, standing still and looking at Hermione with a most curious expression on his face. "Well, he can't rob me of all my fun. Not all of it," he repeated, taking two steps toward her. Reaching down, he yanked up hard on her arm and pulled her face close to his. Hermione felt like some sort of prey, for the look on Malfoy's face was most predatory, with a gleam of savage cruelty in his eyes.  
"Well, well, Granger, you're so clever, let's see if you know how to fuck?" he hissed into her ear before shoving her backwards onto the bed. Hermione fell with a shocked expression on her face. What had he said? Her numbed brain couldn't process it fast enough, couldn't respond quick enough. She found her hands bound with silvery-white cords to the bedposts. This couldn't be happening, she thought frantically pulling at her hands, this isn't happening right now, no it's not, no no no.  
Malfoy laughed at her futile struggles, then growled as he leapt on top of her, slapping her viciously across the face. Her head bounced to the left and Hermione saw stars dancing around Malfoy's face as he pulled her wizarding robes off her body so hard they ripped, sending dusty clouds into the dank air. His hands pushed up her thighs until they found the waistband of her panties and he pulled those off too. Now Hermione began to struggle and kick her legs, but Malfoy just raised his wand and thin silvery-white cord leapt out to tie her legs to the bottom bedposts. She could move around but that wouldn't help her now. Nothing could help her now, she realized, sobbing, Malfoy was going to rape her.  
"Shut up, bitch!" shouted Malfoy as he backhanded her again. Then he pulled his pants down and shoved himself inside her so hard and deep that Hermione screamed. Again and again Malfoy fucked her. Hermione's cries of pain and pleads for him to stop only made his grin wider, only made him grip her arms tighter. His fingers formed steel vices around her arms, and when she was sure all blood circulation had been lost to her hands, Malfoy's hands let go of her arms to grab onto her hips so he could force himself into her with even more violence. His fingers dug into her flesh, leaving bruised finger marks for Hermione to cry over later. The space between her thighs burned with constant pain, varied by the sharpness she felt every time Malfoy left her body only to drive into her again.  
Finally Malfoy was done with her, for he stopped fucking her and got off the bed, breathing hard and looking slightly flushed. Dusting off his robes and running a hand over his hair, he smiled wickedly at her. "My, my, Granger, you're not very good at that, are you? I suppose you need private lessons. What's that? No answer?" said Malfoy, cocking an ear at her, but all Hermione could do was sob wordlessly. She hurt so badly, why couldn't he just kill her and then he'd be happy, she'd be dead, and wouldn't feel like she'd been sliced up inside by a knife made of barbed wire anymore.  
"I said, 'no answer?' Answer me!" he yelled, grabbing her by her hair and pulling up. Hermione tried to turn her head away from his, unable to think beyond a haze of pain that obscured her motions.  
"Stupid mudblood can't answer, so I'll assume that she needs lessons, hmmm? How does that sound?" he asked in a mocking tone of voice laced with a dangerous edge. "You're to be kept alive, but who said anything about being happy? And the Dark Lord's rather busy right now, with killing off all your precious friends, so I don't think he'll be looking for you anytime soon. That means that I can do anything I want to you." Finished talking, he shoved her head backward into the headboard of the bed, then stalked over to the door.  
"Finite Incantatum," said Malfoy, watching lazily as the cords binding Hermione to the bed vanished. "I'll see you later," he hissed at her before slamming the door shut and locking it.  
Alone in her dark room, Hermione felt her head, wincing each time she encountered a new bruise. She slowly ran her hands over her body, crying aloud when she reached her inner thighs. Every inch of her felt bruised, but here was the worst. She hugged her legs close to her chest and sobbed brokenly, not caring if someone in the next room heard her cry. There was nothing else she could do. 


	2. Part II

Part II: Living in the Suburbs of Hell  
  
Around four years later.  
  
It was three-thirty by the time Ginny stumbled downstairs to the bar. A few hours before she'd have to go work as a waitress inside the small yet stylish restaurant-and-bar combo that their family owned with the Parvati family in the Death Eater rebuilt Diagon Alley. She worked as a waitress, along with Padma, Cho, and Ron, taking orders from regular wizarding folk who were just trying to survive like her and from the Death Eaters who frequented their tavern. They had spent three long years working to get this dump to become a popular place for the Death Eaters to hang out, investing in velveted booths with silence-charmed walls, and expensive mirrors and lamps to give the place a luxurious atmosphere. All the glitzy accents were really meant to attract Death Eaters here so the staff could spy on them.  
Or so that was Ron's genius plan, a plan that constantly put them all in the scrutiny of Death Eaters. He wanted to have a place for their useless Resistance to meet and gather information that they could possibly use against the Death Eaters. Really, thought Ginny, Ron should just give up hope by now of ever doing anything that would topple this tyrannical government and concentrate on perhaps making enough money to keep us afloat.  
She kept grumbling to herself as she sat at the bar and waited for George to get her something to eat. He was busy replacing the crystal long- stemmed glasses that they served drinks in. Sooner or later he'd notice her, probably later, thought Ginny. Her brother seemed more and more willing to sink into his role as bartender and forget that he had a family left, brothers and a sister who cared about him. I suppose it's just easier for him, Ginny thought wistfully.  
"George?" she said, annoyed when her brother didn't turn around. "George?" louder. "GEORGE!" louder. He jumped and turned to face her.  
"What?"  
"Could you maybe get me something to eat? Before it gets busy in here?" Ginny said shortly. He gave her a sheepish look before walking into the kitchen. She glared at George's back before it disappeared behind the door. Stupid boy, so absorbed in his job or whatever. Ginny stopped grumbling to herself when she heard the sounds of someone walking down the stairs hidden behind the bar.  
"Hey, Gin, morning, " greeted Cho Chang, rubbing sleep-squinty eyes at the afternoon sunlight. Ginny glanced at Cho's elegant hands, which she had set down on the bar counter. "Was it tough last night?"  
"Nah, not really, just gross," answered Ginny, making a face at Cho, who laughed. "It was Mister Borgin, you know how old and wrinkled he is, it was just plain gross touching that wanker."  
"Ewww," said Cho, echoing Ginny's disgusted face.  
"How do you do it?" asked Gin, "you always get the young, unwrinkled ones while I'm stuck with these yucky old farts."  
Cho agreed with her, saying, "True, but you come back with more useful info for us than I do." Ginny nodded, flicking her eyes from Cho's black orbs to the kitchen door. She was hungry and George had probably already forgotten about breakfast. "Why is that, Gin?"  
"It's because the old dudes have been around longer and are trusted with more secrets," said Padma, pulling up a chair on the other side of Ginny, who looked at her in surprise.  
"I thought you'd still be in bed," said Ginny. "Are you feeling better already?"  
"Not really, but I'm only going to work the floor tonight," answered Padma, looking sorry. "I know it's rough, but-"  
Cho reached out a hand across Ginny's body to stop Padma. "It's ok, don't worry about it. Gin and I can handle it. At least you can come back and help us with the tables tonight, I always feel so bad for poor Ron."  
"Yeah, Ron was stuck with most of the tables last night, especially when Cho or I had to go upstairs," laughed Gin. "Poor ickle-Ronnie-kins, rushing around, trying to get drink orders and fend off horny old women!" Cho and Padma roared with laughter. It was so true, thought Ginny. Ron, with his long limbs and shockingly red hair, was always attracting attention from the female patrons of their establishment. Sometimes a few men too, reflected Ginny. If her brother was a little more flexible, perhaps they could use him to get even more money out of their customers, but she knew that Ron blushed red when a woman even winked at him, let alone tried to hit on him.  
"Finally, Georgie-boy, breakfast!" exclaimed Cho, reaching out a hand for the coffeepot.  
"Sorry it's late, girls," he said as he put plates in front of them.  
  
"It's ok, honey, just as long as you're the one bringing out my pancakes in the morning," said Cho coyly, reaching over the counter to kiss George on the check. His ears blushed, but he merely retreated to the kitchen again. Cho slumped in her chair, uttering a huge sigh.  
"So he's still chicken?" said Padma around a mouthful of eggs.  
"Yeah," muttered Cho. Ginny decided to ignore the problems surrounding her friends and their lives to look out the window. It offered a great view of Diagon Alley and all the foot traffic weaving their way around the shops. Most of them had been completely rebuilt after the Death Eaters destroyed Diagon Alley four years ago and were owned by various people. Some catered to the whims of their dark rulers, offering rare and expensive ingredients for potions while other shops tried to be normal, like the bookstore and the robe shop. But they had to change around things in order to cater to the Death Eaters, for they ruled business and commerce, having most of the money. Initially, they had lent out money to people wanting to start a business here when their old houses or shops had been destroyed and their fortunes seized by the Death Eaters. It had taken them two years to pay back all the money they borrowed on this restaurant, reflected Ginny. Her brothers and herself had formed a partnership with the Patil family. Mr. Patil had been killed, but Mrs. Patil and her twin daughters were eager to do something useful with their lives, now that their Old World had been ruined along with the Weasleys. So they pooled their resources and bought this place, which they named "The Last Chance." The name fit thoroughly, as this place was their last chance to make a living and more recently their last chance to fight back. Yet "The Last Chance" was really too expensive for them to run. The taxes imposed by the Death Eaters were heavy and unnecessary. They were lucky that the small staff lived on the third floor and essentially worked for peanuts to keep the restaurant alive. Parvati used to work in the restaurant, but once she moved in with Malcolm Braddock, she'd virtually cut off all contact with her family. It was strange, thought Ginny, that the Gryffindor would be shacking up with a Death Eater while the Ravenclaw worked with us.  
Ginny shoved the last piece of toast into her mouth as George took their plates, telling them to hurry and get dressed before customers started coming in the restaurant. She rolled her eyes and followed Cho and Padma up the stairs to their rooms.  
As soon as she made it up to the third floor, she heard Ron throwing his knife into the wall. He did that when he couldn't sleep, practiced throwing, and sometimes forgot what time it was. "Ron, it's after four," she said, chiding him lightly. "Fred's going to open up soon, so you need to get changed."  
"And so do you," he said, walking down the hallway to pull out his knife and study Ginny's face. "You're too thin, you know."  
"And so are you," she retorted, squeezing his arm. "So you can't lecture me about it." She paused, then decided to tease Ron a bit. "Although I'm sure quite a few women that come here like their men tall and thin, because, well, you know what they say about tall men." Ginny trailed off, watching Ron blush. He could control his temper, resist the urge to say things, but no matter what he did, Ron could never stop blushing.  
He just stared at her teasing gaze, then spun around to throw his knife into the wall expertly. He was going to wear a hole in that door if he didn't stop hitting the same spot. Ginny didn't bother to say anything else, but opened the door to her room.  
After she closed the door, she pulled the extra-large t-shirt she slept in over her head and stepped out of her shorts. Her black garter belt and tights lay over the chair. Without thinking, Ginny pulled them on then fastened her lacy black bra on. It did wonders for her cleavage, but pinched her skin. Ah, well, the prices we pay, she told herself. After checking in the cracked mirror that she had all her racy underwear on correctly, she walked over to the closet to find a clean skirt and shirt. Black seemed to be the color of the day, as all Ginny could find was a short, flared black skirt. But no shirt. Padma must've stole my shirts, Ginny thought. She was standing in front of the closet, digging through it when Ron stepped in.  
"Hey, Ron, have you seen any of my shirts?" she asked, her voiced muffed.  
He came up beside her and poked his head inside the closet. "I don't see any in here."  
"I know, that's why I'm looking," asked Ginny, pulling herself out of the closet and walking over to the chair. Clothes were piled on top of it, making sitting on it impossible. Maybe she could find one here. "Aha! I guess I'll wear green today!" crowed Ginny, shrugging on the green satin halter. She turned to her brother, ready to ask how she looked, only to see him laying down in the top bunk bed. "Are you feeling ok?" He waved her off, so she turned to the mirror to apply several make-up charms. While she liked her features the way they were, most male customers liked red, full lips and long, black lashes.  
Studying her made-up face, Ginny decided she'd spent enough time getting ready and headed out the door. Once she made it down the stairs, she heard Fred saying, "And here, one of our waitresses will show you to your table." Another night had begun.  
  
"I need three Firewhiskeys and two Liquid Curses," Ginny told George. He pulled out a tray and five glasses then began to pour the liquor. She moaned and rubbed at her ankles. The stupid heels she had to wear were killing her; she was convinced that when she died, it would be because of these hideous spikes. And I don't even need them, I'm tall enough, she complained silently, cursing the fact that men thought stilettos were sexy.  
  
"Gin," whispered George, "I think eighteen looks promising, he's had three Firewhiskeys already, been eyeing you all evening. The room's empty and stocked." She looked over at table eighteen, a table meant for two tucked away next to the wall. Antonin Dolohov sat there alone. Old and gross, she thought, it figures.  
"Yeah, I've noticed. You think he knows something?" she asked George, who nodded.  
"I've seen him with Mulciber and Rookwood, both wizards that gave us good info, so yeah."  
"Gee, thanks George for being so fucking enthusiastic, I appreciate it," growled Ginny before grabbing a key to one of the rooms on the second floor hidden under the bar. She plastered a sexy smile on her face and sauntered over to Dolohov's table with another drink. "Here you go, darling. Is there anything else you want tonight?" she asked, sitting down opposite from Dolohov and leaning across the table, making sure he got a good view down her shirt.  
"By anything, do you mean yourself?" he asked with a disgusting, leering look on his fat face.  
Forcing her mind to keep still, Ginny nodded, reaching inside her bra for the key she'd just tucked in there. She held it across the table, but pulled it back when Dolohov reached for it, drawling, "I don't know if I can do this."  
"Oh, understand me, I can make it worth your while," assured Dolohov, dropped several galleons on the table. "That's just for now, sweetie, just to reserve the room. I'll give you the rest when we're up there."  
"That's good enough for me," answered Ginny, picking up the galleons with one hand while dropping the key into his outstretched palm with the other. "Give me a minute to clear a few tables."  
"Yes, yes, that's good, very good," he mumbled, looking around now. Ginny smiled coyly and got up, knowing Dolohov was nervous because he didn't want any of his fellows to see him soliciting female company in the restaurant. It was the dirty side to working under the Death Eaters, thought Ginny while she carried a tray back to the bar, they liked the good food, expensive liquor, sexy waitresses, and oh yeah, a side of prostitution would be nice also.  
"Padma! I'll be gone for a while, think you three can handle it?" she asked the other girl, who was looking a little gray.  
"Sure, we're fine, and if not, I'll just get Ron to cover me while I crash in the kitchen," she said. Ginny nodded and walked over to the front staircase. This one led to the rooms on the second floor they kept for prostitution purposes, whereas the hidden stairs behind the bar only led to the staff's bedrooms. Resisting the urge to look for Ron, Ginny swayed her hips and walked up to the second floor.  
  
Hesitating before the door, Ginny tried to care, tried to summon up some feeling that made her question what she was about to do, but she'd stopped caring a while ago. This was just a part of her life that she had learned to separate from the rest of her.  
"Hello, hello," she said as she entered the room. Dolohov was waiting on the bed, holding one of the champagne glasses.  
Briefly her hopes rose up-maybe he would want something to drink first, then she wouldn't have to do this, could just get her information and leave-but no, her hopes crashed and burned as he said, his voice turning oily with lust, "I think I'd like a blow job, then maybe some champagne. I'm sorry, but I simply don't have time for anything else, I've got to rush to this meeting."  
Masking her disappointment by hooking her fingers around her halter strap, Ginny said, "That's fine with me. Would you like.?" When Dolohov nodded, she slithered out of the green shirt, the satin material sliding smoothly and contrasting with her creamy skin. She knew from what Neville had told her one night when they were completely trashed that her complexion was enough to make some guys get hard just by imagining how she tasted and felt. That was a good night, she reflected. Think about that night instead of what you're doing now.  
"Like this?" she asked, stepping out of her skirt and standing in front of Dolohov, licking her lips.  
"Yes," he groaned, unsure of whether to stand up or remain seated. Ginny decided for him, kneeling with her head between his legs. She reached up freckled hands to caress his face, moving slowly down his chest, until she reached the indecent bulge within his trousers. Confident this wouldn't take long, she unzipped his pants and began to tease with her fingers and mouth.  
While sucking on Dolohov's wrinkled dick, she tried to keep her mind clear by remembering that night with Neville. He was such a wonderful person, didn't deserve losing his parents, his grandmother, and this depressing life, but somehow he always had a smile for her. At least he doesn't have to deal with perverted creeps every night, she thought, although this guy is at least traditional, thinking back to last week when Walden MacNair only wanted to watch her and Cho nibble on each other. That had been a test of self-control; Ginny hadn't known who was going to bust out laughing first, her or Cho.  
At least she knew that working in the kitchen was a relatively safe job for Neville. She didn't think she could bear it if Neville died or was captured by the Death Eaters because of his connections to the Resistance. And he was always so sweet to her, boyish and shy, but sweet. That was a fun night. The bar had been closed and everyone else was asleep. They'd bumped into each other in the kitchen and decided to share a bottle of Liquid Curse to keep bad dreams away. For hours they'd challenged each other to drink more shots than the other, to sing songs without messing up the lyrics, and then they just talked about everything. Ginny realized suddenly that was the last time she'd really laughed. And they'd stumbled up the stairs and gone to their separate rooms without so much as an innocent kiss between them. Maybe that was why Ginny liked Neville so much. He knew what she did every night, he knew what all the girls did. And like everyone in the staff, he hated it, but understood that it was a necessary evil. So he made sure to completely respect Ginny. Neville was always a gentleman around her, being careful not to say anything lewd or touch her in any way. He treated her like the lady he saw her as, instead of the slut that she had become. Ginny swallowed hard, and pulled away from Dolohov, turning around to go get the champagne to cover up the tears that had sprung in her eyes.  
"Would you like something to drink now?" she asked, pouring the bubbly liquid and carrying the glasses back over to the bed, making sure to sit by the headboard.  
"Sweetie, can I call you lover-lips?" asked Dolohov, chuckling weakly as he zipped up his trousers and pulled out his moneybag.  
"You can call me anything you want to," said Ginny, "but if you don't pay me." she pouted, turning her frown into an exaggerated grin when Dolohov dumped a pile of money on the bed between them.  
"All yours, toots. Now let me have that champagne." She handed him his glass, pretending to sip, watching Dolohov swallow the liquid, waiting the necessary time until she knew the veritiserum that had already been placed in the champagne had taken effect. Then she reached behind the headboard and pulled out a wand, uttering a binding spell that caused thin cords to snake around Dolohov's arms and legs.  
"What-what're you doing? If you think this is some sort of kinky gag, think again missy!" he sputtered.  
"Shut up!" Ginny snarled, sick of this disgusting creep. "I'm asking the questions, you're going to answer them, or I'll take your pitiful dick and slice it off with this," she said, pulling out a knife from under the bed. Dolohov gulped and shut his mouth. Pleased that something would be going right, she grinned wickedly and said, "Now why don't you begin by telling about that meeting you have to rush off to?"  
  
Ron walked in behind his sister into the kitchen, closing the door after the cat that adopted them scurried in, probably hoping for scraps. They were the last to arrive; everyone else was already seated and tucking into dinner. He sat down and picked up his fork, wondering if he was hungry enough to eat or if he could just pick at his food like he did most nights. After stealing a sidelong glance at Ginny, still in her waitress getup, Ron decided that playing with his food was the plan for tonight. Again.  
"Well, guys, what have we got tonight?" said Fred, initiating their nightly meeting, pulling out a quill and parchment to take notes. The staff always gathered after the bar was closed for the night to eat and discuss any news, rumors, or events they had heard about during their shift. And Fred always took notes, no matter how mundane the news.  
"Hey, where's Cho?" asked Ginny, raising a concerned face to look around the table.  
Padma shrugged and said, "I saw her go into our room, maybe she wanted to change first. Not all of us can sit in twenty pounds of underwear like you can, Ginny dear." Padma had already rushed upstairs to change into an old bathrobe, slightly ratty but still in good shape. Ginny stuck her tongue out at Padma and resumed eating.  
"I heard from the bar chatter that a couple of the younger Death Eaters are getting pretty bored," offered George. He didn't look up, but kept his gaze trained on his sandwich in front of him. "That they're getting restless with no one to beat up at night, seeing as they're not supposed to terrorize the law-abiding populace like us."  
"What are you not saying?" said Ron, knowing that his brother was holding something back.  
George shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. "Maybe I heard a few guys talking about wanting more action, willing to face the heat from the boss in order to have some fun. Maybe the words 'muggle' and 'sport' were mentioned in the same sentence.that's all I have to say, really, just a bunch of drunk, young hot shots running their mouths."  
"They were probably just voicing their own desires," said Padma, her face tightened with worry. Ron knew the feeling. "Muggle" and "sport" were two words that in a moral world, did not belong together. But in this world, who knew?  
"You could be right, but perhaps George heard a rumor of something that's going to become reality," said Fred thoughtfully. "We'll have to watch out for this one."  
"But you mean that they might start hunting muggles for sport or something!" exclaimed Neville, the disgust and terror on his face matching most everyone's in the room. Ernie MacMillon and Elois Midgen, the other two cooks, looked green. Ron peered at everyone's faces. There weren't many here tonight, just him, the twins, Ginny, Padma, Cho but she was upstairs, and the three who worked the kitchens. The rest of the Resistance would show up for their sometimes-weekly meeting, as they worked at different places. It is incredible, actually, thought Ron, that we manage to run the entire restaurant mostly with only nine people. Angelina worked here when she stopped by, so did Lee Jordan. They were both free- lancers, roaming the countryside, looking for support against the Death Eaters. When they needed to lie low, this was the place to do it. And having Angelina home always put Fred in a better mood, which made him nicer to everyone else.  
"I heard something interesting," said Ginny in a low voice. Fred caught her eye and she continued talking. "From Dolohov, tonight, he told me under veritiserum that someone inside the castle has been working on this new tracking spell."  
"That's not news," grumbled Fred, but Ginny cut him off.  
"Not like an ordinary tracking spell that takes a lot of time and effort to prepare, that the person being tracked can feel the spell from the moment it hits them, and not like the ordinary spells in that it wears off quickly. No, this spell's special. Been worked on for a year. A whole fucking year." She paused to take a bite of her sandwich. Everyone waited in silence for her to finish chewing and swallow. "This spell can be put on a person with them only feeling a slight tingle, nothing noticeable. And it lasts for as long as the spell-caster wants it too. And it's more advanced, can give audio data continuously as well as movement."  
"Who's working on it? When will it be ready for the Death Eaters to use? How does this guy know about it?" Fred rattled off his questions.  
"Dolohov didn't know who made it, I questioned him thoroughly, and I don't believe he's got the strength to fight veritiserum as well as take threats about bodily harm," sighed Ginny. "So I couldn't find out who's the evil genius. If Dolohov didn't know, then it must be a highly secretive thing, even within their own ranks. And all he could tell me was that it should be ready within a month for use."  
"This is horrible!" cried Ernie. "If this works, then the Death Eaters could track anyone, find out all their movements, listen to everything!"  
"Any one of us could be tracked, and then they'd know all about this," said Neville mournfully.  
"Let's not panic yet," said Ron. "We don't know if this is all true, or a bunch of Death Eater rumors inside their own castle. We just have to wait and see." His words calmed everyone down, but for the rest of the meeting faces looked tense and worried.  
"Yeah, well, while we're waiting about that, today's owl post contained our monthly bills," said Fred. "And I've looked over our finances."  
"And we're short again, aren't we?" accused Ginny.  
"Yeah."  
"I don't understand how this happens!" moaned Neville, placing his head in his hands. Eloise patted his shoulder, looking sympathetic.  
"We all knew that this place would be expensive. It's the location, I think, that's cost us so much," said Fred. "Just how much, I didn't realize when we started."  
Ron turned to look at Cho. "It's all those lamps that you bought last month, isn't it? That's why we're short this time?"  
"They were necessary! They fit in so well, really give the place a classy-look," defended Cho, glaring at Ron. "As I told you when I bought them, with money I earned, classy is the look we want and need if this place will ever make money."  
"Just the other day I heard someone say how much they liked the lamps," piped up Ernie. Cho smiled warmly at him before turning back to Ron and flashing him a triumphant grin.  
"But still, all this money we spend on getting the restaurant to look 'classy' and we still don't have the business we need," said Ron. "It's not that I'm against your lamps, I'm just against not making money."  
"I think we all do the best we can," Fred interrupted. "The under- the-table profits we get should get us through this month."  
"Yeah, it's not our fault that we've been assaulted by Death Eater tax collectors who've swarmed on us in excess numbers every years," said Padma. She laughed. "And I though paying Hogwarts' tuition was bad. This is just ridiculous. The minute we make any money, along comes another stupid fee to pay."  
"Remember when we thought the old Ministry was corrupt, Fred?" asked Ron. "And Cornelius Fudge was the worst thing since anti-cheating spells on O.W.L.s?"  
"If only we had Fudge back instead of these greedy madmen in charge," Cho said. "I'm sure he'd love 'The Last Chance'!"  
"For what? The food, the drinks, or the service?" teased Ginny.  
"Definitely the service!" Cho and Ginny crowed, laughing together. Ron caught Neville's eye and they both grinned. It was not hard to imagine the dead Minister of Magic frequenting their restaurant at all.  
It was past four in the morning when Fred said, "Ok, that's enough grumbling, let's all get some sleep." He left, quickly followed by everyone else. They trooped up together to the third floor and separated into their respective rooms. Ron ducked into his room, but saw Ginny continue down the hall.  
"Where are you going?" he asked.  
"Cho's room. I want to make sure she's ok," his sister said. Briefly Ron wondered where Padma was, but saw the bathroom light on and realized she must be in there. He shrugged and closed the door, pulling off his shirt before crawling up to his bed.  
  
Knocking softly on Cho and Padma's door, Ginny said, "Cho? You ok? Can I come in?" After a muffled response that she took as a "yes," Ginny eased the door open and stepped inside, turning to make sure she closed the door behind her. When she turned around, she gasped.  
Cho was sitting on her bed, with an ugly bruise across her jawbone. She'd been crying, for her eyes were puffy and her make-up smudged. Still in her waitress uniform, surrounded by crumpled tissues, Cho looked so miserable that Ginny's heart died a little. It hurt to see her friend so upset.  
"Who did this?" she said, sitting beside Cho to touch her bruise.  
The other girl winced, saying, "Just some asshole, thought he'd get smart with me. I blasted him, then wiped his memory, spilled some liquor and hopefully he'll just think he passed out."  
"Let me fix it for you," said Ginny, reaching over to the dresser for Cho's wand. "Why didn't you get it yourself?"  
"I didn't think of doing that. I was just so upset when I got here, couldn't stop crying." sniffled Cho.  
Muttering a healing spell, Ginny watched as the bruise purpled and faded a bit. "Well, it's mostly ok, but you'll need to wear concealer tomorrow." Setting the wand down, she put a comforting arm around Cho's shoulders. "Now why don't you just tell why you're so upset?"  
"You'll think I'm such a moron!" wailed Cho, burying her face in her hands. "I just stood there and let that guy hit me, thinking that I must deserve this somehow, that I must be defective, worthless, I must be, or why wouldn't George pay attention to me?" Gin sucked her breath in, knowing that Cho had been after her brother for awhile, but unsure of what had happened between them. "George just ignores me, like he ignores everyone. I can't take it! What's wrong with your brother, Ginny, what's wrong with him that he won't even look at me? I think I've fallen for him and he won't spare me a glance," she finished, sobbing. "I suppose it's because he thinks I'm a slut, which I am, and that I have no business falling in love," Cho cried bitterly.  
Ginny handed her another tissue, then said, "George is an idiot. We all know this. He's just closed himself off from everyone, including his twin. It's just his way of protecting himself. I'm sure he doesn't think you're an unfeeling whore, Cho, anymore than he thinks that of me." Here she paused, thinking of how her once so mischievous and outgoing brother had retreated into himself since all this had happened. "Just.just give him time, ok? I'll talk to him, if you want?" she offered, but Cho waved her away.  
"No, don't, please? That would just make him feel threatened. I'll- figure something out," said Cho. "Thanks."  
"No problem, us whores got to stick together, right?" said Ginny, offering a wry smile with their running joke. They laughed weakly then Ginny got up, telling Cho to get some sleep. She left her room and retreated to the one she shared with Ron. It was more of a comfort thing, to share a room with her brother. They were both alone, didn't have anyone special to live with, so they had opted to room together. That way, when one of them was pissed off, the other didn't care. Likewise, when Ginny wanted to talk at night, Ron could join in or ignore her without offending her.  
"What was wrong with Cho?" asked Ron as soon as she'd closed the door.  
Blowing out her breath exasperatedly, Ginny said, "Some guy hit her and Cho thinks it's all because she's worthless and George doesn't love her because she's a slut." She stripped out of her skirt, shirt, and underwear in the darkness. Tonight she was going to sleep naked, because she wanted to. That always felt nice, especially when she locked the door, as she did now.  
"Sleeping in the nude again, sister dear?" came Ron's amused voice. She smacked his arm, which hung down over the top bunk. "Ouch! So Cho's seriously after George? Really?"  
"Apparently, seeing as she'd cried herself to pieces about the fact that George's social life is equivalent to a garden gnome and won't even look twice at her, despite the fact that he ignores all of us equally." Anger had seeped into her voice. Yeah, George had lost people he loved, but so did they all. At least he doesn't have to use his body every night to get to the secrets that had kept us all alive and safe from the Death Eaters. At least he isn't a slut, she thought, familiar anger and bitterness coursing through her. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, she hated it, but this was just how her life had worked out. It's not my fault I can fake an orgasm and look decent in a garter belt, she thought with a touch of bitter humor, trying to relax and not dwell on the miserable life she'd been forced into.  
Brother and sister lay in silence for a while, long enough that Ginny thought Ron had fallen asleep, until he whispered, "Do you still believe that we'll ever change this?"  
She knew was he was talking about. Did she believe that the Resistance would ever topple Voldemort, that their pathetic group of spies would uncover something useful, that what she and they had given up was worth it? "No."  
"Me too," said Ron. Those words lay in the darkness between them, growing bigger and bigger, until Ginny felt she was going to be suffocated by their admission that they'd both lost hope, until Ron continued, saying, "I think I lost it when Hermione died."  
Ginny felt tears prick at her closed eyelids. She knew that Ron had loved Hermione in the days before Voldemort had conquered everything, but also that he'd never gotten a chance to do anything about it. And then they'd watched her getting dragged away by Death Eaters to an execution squad-no wonder Ron was so quiet now, silently cutting away at himself. "I'm so sorry that it had to be like this," she said, hoping to offer some comfort that she knew Ron would shove away.  
"I am too, Gin." She heard Ron turning in his bed above her, preparing to go to sleep. "Night," he said, before the silence enveloped their room and Ginny lay naked in her bed, under her sheets, trying to calm her mind enough to sleep.  
  
It was a little past sunrise. The building was quiet. Everyone was asleep, except for Ron. He stood at one end of the hallway, throwing his knife across to the door of the bathroom. He'd throw it, then walk down, seventeen precise steps, yank the blade out of the wooden door, then walk back seventeen steps to throw it again. The regularity of these motions soothed his mind, offered him a blanket of emptiness to relax his mind when he couldn't sleep. Lately, he'd been replaying the last day before he was sent to the prison camp, before everything changed. Inside the chambers of his mind, Ron heard Hermione screaming in horror as Dementors swarmed inside the Great Hall at Hogwarts, he saw Death Eaters laughing with comic delight as students ran shrieking from the various dark creatures Voldemort had brought with him as his army, banshees screaming, beautiful veelas transforming into viscous birds and attacking whoever was nearest, trolls smashing apart the tables and windows, the confusion becoming too much to process, shouts and curses filling the air, green light flashing, feeling panic flow through his blood, gripping his wand tight, knowing with certainty it was over before they'd had a chance.  
Ron usually didn't bother to sleep through his memories, but got up quietly so Ginny could sleep and went into the hallway. At least there he could ignore the huge empty hole inside him, that used to be filled with his parents and Percy and Charlie and Bill and Hermione and Harry, that was now empty and gaping like a bleeding eye socket, ugly and unfixable.  
He'd just turned around to face the bathroom door again when he heard the side door in the kitchen scrap open. Since he knew everyone who lived here was asleep, Ron assumed it was an uninvited guest. Gripping his knife in a more secure position, he moved silently down the stairs. He saw the outline of a figure standing in front of the fireplace. Creeping up behind it, he grabbed the person around the neck and flicked his blade to the delicate skin of her throat.  
"Scream and you're dead," he hissed into her ear.  
"Honestly, Ron, I'm surprised you haven't killed off anyone yet, with your jumpy nerves," said the figure. He blinked in surprise, but let go and backed off. Angelina Johnson spun around to glare at him. "You must have the reincarnated soul of Mad-Eye Moody-although that wouldn't make sense.he was still alive when you were born. You must be possessed by Mad- Eye then!" she said, triumphant in her use of illogic.  
"I didn't know you'd be back," said Ron, running a hand through his short hair, spiking it up with his fingers. Obviously Angelina was done roaming the countryside for now. Ron wondered if she had anything important to share or if she just needed a bath and a few regular meals.  
"Wondering if I'm here as a freeloader or if I'll pay my way this time?" said Angelina, correctly guessing his thoughts.  
"I'm not that cynical," protested Ron, but Angelina laughed.  
"You're too cute, Ron, really! I know you're just worried about everything, the Resistance, the restaurant, everything. And for your information," she said, leaning forward with a conspirator look in her eye, "I do have something extremely juicy to tell you guys."  
"Really? Like what? You've bought some new exotic underwear to tease Fred with later? That's hardly news," scoffed Ron, enjoying how quickly Angelina turned red. It was useful knowing people's weaknesses, even though everyone knew that Fred and Angelina were madly in love. And lust, attested Neville and George, who shared the room next to Fred's room when Angelina stayed here.  
"Shut up, you. You know, you'd be less grumpy if you'd get laid on a regular basis," said Angelina too casually. Ron scowled at her, knowing that she wanted him to find a girl and attempt to become normal. She was too much like an older sister figure sometimes. An older sister who slept with his brother. Urgh. Maybe like a sister-in-law who slept with his brother, yeah, that made more sense.  
"You were saying?" said Ron, steering the conversation back to where he wanted it to go.  
"Yeah. Have you guys heard about anything big coming up here?" Ron shook his head. "Didn't think so. I just found out a day ago, out by the Malfoy's private estate, in their cozy village. He's planning some huge shin-dig to take place at the castle," Angelina said, mentioning Voldemort's castle that served as headquarters for his evilness and for the entire Death Eater government. "A huge party. I'm talking, everyone evil, was ever evil, even in a past life, invited, gowns, liquor, cakes with dancing girls, the works."  
Ron asked, "Cakes with dancing girls?"  
"Yeah, you know, the kind that girl pops out of the top of the cake and she dances around in skimpy underwear?" At Ron's incredulous look, Angelina sighed and said, "Ok, maybe Death Eaters don't go for that sort of thing, but anyway, it's gonna be big, I'm telling you. Big enough to warrant them hiring lots of extra help. That extra help could be us."  
"We could get inside?" asked Ron, ideas starting to spark in his head. "Us? The Resistance? Inside headquarters?"  
"Yeah, and who knows what we could do once we're inside," Angelina joined in excitedly. "If we only had a plan."  
"I could plan," said Ron.  
"Thought so." They stared at each other, Ron's eyes becoming glazed over until Angelina thumped him on the back. "You think about it, I'm going to go get me my welcome from George. See you later."  
"Uh-huh," Ron mumbled, sinking into a chair, knowing that Angelina would go upstairs, wake Fred up, probably get her enthusiastic welcome, then tell him what she had just told him. This fantastic piece of news. They could use this, turn it into an offensive strike against the Death Eaters, work it to hurt them. Ron pulled out his knife and carefully sliced the skin on his palm, vowing to see Death Eater blood flow soon.  
  
"I wish you wouldn't do that," said Ginny as she sat beside Ron in the kitchen. They were gathering for their weekly Resistance meeting, probably to discuss how many drinks Ludo Bagman had and their tip earnings, although tonight he actually had something relatively important to tell everyone.  
"I know," Ron answered, not moving his eyes from the thin red squiggle he'd made down the length of this forearm.  
"It's not healthy," said Ginny half-heartedly, plucking at the worn edge of her jumper. It was actually his, Ron thought briefly, before he decided he didn't care whose jumper Ginny wore.  
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Ron just said, "It doesn't get infected, doesn't even scar. I just use some murtlap essence and ploob-a- doof, healthy skin again." It was an old argument, one he'd had too many times with his sister to count, so they just recited their lines now without much feeling.  
"Whatever," mutter Ginny, slouching in her chair. Ron looked up from his arm, putting aside his knife to look at his sister. She looked tired, but that was normal. Peering closer, he noticed a faint red mark on her temple. When she noticed his gaze, she flushed and whispered, "It's nothing. Be quiet, everyone's here."  
Indeed everyone was there. The whole group, Ron thought wryly, managed to fit around the kitchen table. It didn't say much for their Resistance if the group consisted of around twenty people, give or take a few. But it was hard to keep a group when they didn't do much. Tonight that's going to change, he thought, watching Fred stand up.  
"Contrary to our normal meetings, I have actual news for us all tonight," began Fred, waiting for people to shut up about their drinks and pay attention. "A chance for us to boost business for the restaurant as well as do some damage."  
"Huh? You mean, like an actual mission? Is that what you're talking about?" said Cho, a doubting grin on her face.  
"Yeah right," said Michael Coroner, "we haven't done anything remotely related to a mission since this group was put together."  
"That's not fair," snapped Ginny. "We smuggled the Bones family out of England last year, and then earlier we harassed the Death Eater prison guards enough to set some prisoners free." But she trailed off. Two almost- successes didn't really count as evidence that their resistance group wasn't a failure. Ron thought, this is going to be different though, this time we can do it. All we've needed was the right time and opportunity.  
"Patience and you will find out, Michael. We do mean a mission of deadly force, with the initial tip-off from the lovely Angelina and plans constructed by none other than Ron Weasley himself. But let me fill you in," said Fred, taking over the meeting with the grace and charm that made him most useful at their bartender. People would tell their bartender things that they wouldn't tell their spouses. Speaking quickly but eloquently, Fred filled everyone in on the grand party planned at Voldemort's castle and the need for caterers, bartenders, and serving help.  
  
"This is our chance we've been waiting for. Once we get inside, we're in the perfect position to do something, sabotage that fucking castle, hurt the bastards!" finished Fred, shaking his fist in the air.  
Neville raised his voice, asking, "What about wands? I'm sure the Death Eaters will take those away from us?"  
"And what are we going to do anyhow? We don't have a floor plan of the castle, we don't know who's going to be there-just what are you planning here?" added Justin Fitch-Fletchley, looking more concerned than trying to be a deliberate ass.  
Ron was impressed with the questions-it showed that these people weren't slowly rotting away into the mindless citizens Voldemort wanted. There still are freethinking witches and wizards left, Ron thought cheerfully as he carefully sliced a spiral into his skin. The red curves across his arm glowed in the candlelight. The pain he felt from cutting himself was a good kind of pain. It was what he needed to keep going every day, to remind him to live when it hurt to wake up and see Death Eaters flirting with his sister, putting their filthy hands on her legs, tucking money into her shirt.  
He stopping thinking about that when Fred said, "That's where you all come in. Now we have something to search for, something to pay attention to. Everyone who works in the restaurant can keep their ears and eyes open for any news about the castle, the party, who's going, what shoes they're wearing, everything." Ginny sunk even lower into her chair. Ron noticed that Cho and Padma had also fallen suit. He knew why too. They weren't looking forward to searching out any information, but they'd do it, they'd put up with disgusting creeps to get any tidbit that would be useful for the Resistance.  
"And once we get more information, Ron here will put his genius mind to work crafting us a plan," finished Fred. "We all know how Ron is at chess," he said with a small grin. Everyone knew that Ron, already good at chess while he was still at school, had mastered the game of strategy since then to become a ruthless adversary. Fred often bragged about Ron's ability and sometimes they'd won very large bets against foolish wizards, robbing them ruthlessly of their money, for who would believe that this tall, lanky wizard with short, spiked red hair in the combat boots, torn jeans, and black shirts he wore during his off hours was a chess genius?  
While Ron continued to work at his arm creating a work of art done in skin and blood, everyone around the table slowly processed this incredible news. He heard the girls discussing it quietly, without eagerness but with a grimness that meant they were for the plan regardless of what it meant in their sacrifices. On the other side of him, Oliver and Alicia kept nodding their heads and getting worked up.  
"I still don't know how we'd even be able to do this, if we can't get inside with wands," Oliver was saying, shaking his head dolefully.  
"They'll beef up the security, probably run checks on all the extra help." said Alicia.  
Michael cut her off, saying, "Who knows if we'll even be hired, why would they? We're just a small joint."  
"But high class! Isn't that what the top brass like? Lots of money and luxury? Well, that's 'The Last Chance'!" exclaimed Neville, throwing his arms wide to indicate their dingy kitchen, causing some people within hearing distance to laugh.  
"I don't know about this," mumbled George from his silent chair he'd been sitting in all evening, his low voice just barely able to be heard over everyone talking. "I just don't think it's worth the risk."  
Everyone sat in stunned silence. It was the first time George had ever spoken during a Resistance meeting, as far as Ron could remember, and it was also words that were most un-Weasley-like. Ron wasn't sure he'd heard his once-fearless brother right. After looking at the others' faces, he knew he had. He sat back in his chair, thinking This should be interesting, after seeing the look on Ginny's face.  
Starting to shake with rage, Ginny got up, pushed her chair back with one hand, planting the other hand firmly on the tabletop. "Did I hear you right, George? Did you just say to us that you don't think this is a good idea? That you don't think we should take this risk?"  
Without looking at her, George said, "That's right, I don't. Why work this hard for years only to waste it all getting killed in a suicide mission that won't work?"  
"Where do you get off spouting this kind of crap?" yelled Ginny, slamming her palms flat on the table, not noticing how everyone jumped. "Jesus, George, you don't think it's worth the risk of dying to get a shot at seriously hurting Voldemort? You don't think that we should take this chance, the only serious chance we've ever had, to do some damage? You don't think we should do something to break up the horrible monotony of our lives, to try to regain some of the Old World back?"  
"What's wrong, Georgie boy? Chicken? Scared? Of getting hurt? Dying?" Each word was clipped short and burned with mocking rage. Ginny glared at her brother. Ron realized that she was going to get everything out, was going to say all the things that had been hurting her.  
George tried to defend himself, saying, "Yeah, I'm scared, Gin, you'd be a fool if you weren't, but that's not what-"  
"I know what you mean," interrupted Ginny. "You're just afraid of living. You're scared to try to do something different," she accused, then said, "You don't think I'm scared? Don't you know that I realize what could happen if we muck this up? Let me tell you something, George. While you sit here all day, polishing your glasses and mixing up drinks for these lovely patrons of ours, I sell my body every night so that we can maybe learn something that will help us keep our skins alive and to keep this restaurant open. Do you have any idea how much that hurts?" she asked, her voice cracking. George could only stare at her wordlessly as the blood drained from his face. Ron looked away from his sister. He knew what she did and why she did it, but it shamed him to think how desperate they'd become since the world changed. It was only one more thing for Voldemort to pay for, in a long list that the Dark Lord would never get to see because it was always locked up in secret rooms like this one.  
"I'll never have that special first with someone, because I lost it all on this," she said, motioning around to them. "To us. The Resistance. Ron's grand idea. Not because I love Ron, but because I try to believe that we might one day have a chance to do something great. I still believe that good will triumph over evil, I just don't know when." Ginny pulled her arms close around her body and stood still, visibly struggling with her self-control. "I know what you want, George, I understand. You see, I want it too. I want to die with Mom and Dad and Percy and Charlie and Bill. I want to die with them so I wouldn't have to be here right now, making these choices. Every day when I get up and every night when I go to bed I wish to all the stars in the sky that I had died four years ago instead of living, because living's too hard."  
Reaching an impatient hand up to swipe away her tears, she talked through the salty shower, "It's hard for all of us, but you need to start living again. You hide yourself every day in that bar, although you never touch a drop. You've just lost yourself inside your head, instead of reaching out and becoming stronger with us. Well, you want to die so much," Ginny said, her voice changing and becoming angry again, "why don't you just do it?"  
She pulled out her dagger from her waist and flipped it over handle- first to George. "Either take this dagger, right now, and shove it into your heart and end your misery, or tell me that you were mistaken, that you'll shut your mouth and go along with our plan." Ginny's angry brown eyes stared into George's eyes, large and white with fear. He blinked, looking from the dagger to his sister's face. "Come on, George, make a decision," she mocked, wiggling the silver blade between them.  
Ron glanced quickly around the room to catch everyone else's' reaction. They were all intensely watching the scene unfold before them, as if they all sensed something important was happening. Fred's upper lip curled into what Ron thought was a lopsided smile. He knows what's going to happen, thought Ron.  
George gulped and said shakily, "I was wrong, you-you're right, we should take this chance."  
Ginny pulled the dagger back and put it away, looking relieved. Then she just looked lost, now that she had won her fight. Ron gave George a look, then turned his eyes back to the table as George hugged Ginny close, ignored the sobbing noises she made, and tried to think of another genius plan.  
  
It was a slow day at the bar. Ron had been polishing the black tabletops for an hour, watching the rag move lazily across the gleaming surfaces in hypnotic circles. He didn't have anything else to do, so he cleaned the tables and the bar counter. The girls sat at one of the tables playing exploding snap, careful to keep their shouts of excitement low. Their only customers, two old ladies, were holed up in one of the private booths with a bottle of vodka with strict orders not to be disturbed. Yes, it was a very slow day indeed.  
He had just put away the cleaning rag and grabbed a broom when he heard the sound of the door opening and someone entering. "I'd like to speak with the manager," said a cold, cultured voice that Ron couldn't place.  
While he turned around, he said, "I'll be right back, s-" The "sir" Ron was about to say got stuck in his throat when he saw that the person speaking was Draco Malfoy, standing in his restaurant, looking every inch the Death Eater that he was. Swallowing back any rash words Ron might have said, he repeated, "I'll go get Fred Weasley for you. If you'll wait inside the bar?"  
"What, don't have anything nice to say to your old school nemesis, Weasley, or did someone cut out your tongue?" sneered Malfoy, almost half- heartedly, shrugging out of his cloak and hanging it up on the rack beside the door. Ron held Malfoy's gaze for a few seconds, the turned to find Fred.  
Once he was out of the bar and out of sight from Malfoy, Ron sagged against the wall, taking several deep breaths. I haven't seen Malfoy in years, he thought, but I still want to see him dead.  
Running a hand through his hair, Ron pushed off the wall and walked to the door of Fred's office. He knocked, then opened the door, saying, "Fred," and paused. He'd walked in on his brother and Angelina snogging on his desk. Apparently they'd been going at it for some time now, judging from how many things had gotten knocked onto the floor. "Draco Malfoy wants to see-uh, he wants to see you, now, ok?" he finished, watching Fred and Angelina look at him, then disentangle themselves.  
"Malfoy? Really?" repeated Fred, straightening his clothes and walking out the door before he poked his head back inside the office to say to Angelina, "Sorry, I'll, er, see you later," before scurrying off to play manager.  
Ron looked at Angelina, who had gotten off the desk and was attempting to fix her hair. "Glad to be back?" he asked lightly.  
"Always," she answered with a wink before leaving for the kitchen.  
Deciding it wasn't a good idea to hang out in Fred's office in case Malfoy had business to discuss, Ron walked back into the bar in time to hear Fred say, "If you'll follow me, sir, we can go into my office and discuss this in private?"  
"Of course," muttered Malfoy, following Fred to the back.  
Ron watched them go, mentally trying to relax his fingers from the broom handle. It wasn't working, but at least he hadn't made a fool of himself. The last time Ron had been stupid enough to open his mouth and suggest some foul things for a Death Eater to do instead of be a grown-up bully, he'd found himself in an alley, covered in blood. After limping home and bearing the full brunt of Ginny's wrath while she'd fixed him up, Ron had made a decision to keep his mouth shut from now on. He didn't even want to see Ginny that mad at him again-nor did he want to give a Death Eater an excuse to kill him and make the Weasley family short one more son.  
  
The girls had stopped playing Exploding Snap and were listening to the silence, hoping to grasp a snatch of conversation between Malfoy and George, even though they couldn't possibly hear anything from here. Ron didn't like them in here, so he told them to go get something to eat from the kitchen while there weren't any customers to take care of. He just didn't want them so close to Malfoy, didn't want to give that cold-hearted bastard a chance to leer at his sister, or Cho and Padma, whom he viewed as adopted sisters.  
But Ron stayed in the bar, sweeping the floor, straightening chairs, and moving behind the counter to clean up non-existent messes. He wanted to be out here when Malfoy left so he could talk to Fred. After half-an- hour, Ron heard two sets of footsteps coming toward the bar.  
"I'm very pleased you have considered us, Mr. Malfoy," Ron heard Fred saying.  
As they came into view, Malfoy sneered, "I'm sure you're quite grateful for the business this will provide your fine establishment."  
"Yes, that too," chuckled Fred. Ron could see him acting casual and friendly. "Would you like a drink before you leave? On the house?"  
"No. I have other matters to attend to. An owl will arrive later with more details." Malfoy pulled on his cloak and opened the door. "Good day."  
"And good day to you!" said George cheerfully as Malfoy left. Once he was gone, Fred's smile stayed. Ron was confused now, and it must have showed on his face for Fred patted him on the back, saying, "Everything's perfect now!"  
"How do you mean?" said Ron slowly, wondering if his brother was all right.  
"Apparently there is a huge party going on at the castle. Lucius Malfoy or someone or other is planning to celebrate their four-year anniversary of their defeat of Dumbledore and Harry Potter, so they're hiring extra help. And we're just been hired to help with catering and serving! Isn't this great!" said Fred, clearly struggling to keep his voice down.  
Ron smiled too. "Yeah, it is. Now we have our chance."  
"Shhh.don't say anything now, but yes, now we do." Fred smiled smugly at Ron, then said, "And you'd better get busy planning, oh genius brother of mine," before running to the kitchen to tell everyone else.  
  
Ginny opened her eyes wearily. It was the third time this week that she'd woken up early, for no reason. She was starting to begrudge her lack of sleep, yet at the same time relished the empty kitchen. Soothing herself with a promise of a luxurious breakfast, Ginny slipped on fuzzy slippers and crept out of her room. She hummed to herself while she walked down the hallway and the stairs, not hearing the voices in the kitchen until she was almost at the door. Puzzled, wondering who was awake at this early hour of noon, Ginny held her ear to the door, then pulled back in surprise as she registered Cho's and George's voices. I should respect their privacy, she thought, but I'm just too curious to be good like that, she smiled mischievously as she put her ear to the door once again.  
"Why can't you open up to me?" She heard Cho's anguished voice coming through the door clearly. "You can't even contemplate this, can you?"  
"I can, but I never thought-" George began, but Ginny heard Cho cut him off.  
"You never thought that a slut like me could have real feelings, right?"  
"No! That's not it, you've got the wrong idea, listen to me!"  
Silence with muffled sounds of weeping. Ginny held her breath, willing Cho to swallow her pride and hoping George knew what he was doing.  
  
"I'm listening, all right!"  
"Cho, I knew that-well, that you liked me." said George awkwardly. "But I never thought you'd want me, because well, you know, everything you do, why would you want plain old me?"  
"Don't you get it, Fred? Jesus, you're so blind sometimes!"  
"What do you mean?"  
"You think that just because I happen to have sex with a few guys every night in order to drug and interrogate them later I can't fall in love with someone?"  
Ginny heard George squawk, "Love?" in a strangled voice before Cho continued.  
"Yeah, love, you stupid jerk! I love you, I've fallen for you. What I do in the second floor is just sex, not love, just something that I have to do, like, like brushing my teeth or putting on clothes. It's-oh fuck, you know how Fred is, how he can charm a whole room full of Death Eaters. Do you think he enjoys doing that? Inside, he's aching to kill the whole lot of them. But he pretends like he cares and they believe him. I do the same thing, George, I pretend, I act, I fake every move I make."  
"You do?"  
"Yeah. It hurts, to shut off like that," laughed Cho. "It hurts so much, so do something so intimate without opening up."  
George said in a strained voice, "I can imagine."  
"That's what I want to tell you. I want you, George, I need you. I need someone to love me, to make me feel special, to make me feel like a person again. I want to love someone who can make me happy. I want more than mindless sex. I want to make love to you. I want you, but not just your body, your whole self, soul, person, because I love you. And I guess I thought that I could get through the walls you've put up and hope that you could love me too, but if I'm wrong, please," and Ginny heard Cho's voice crack, "please just don't say anything and leave me alone."  
A huge silence followed. Ginny could only imagine what was happening in the kitchen. She thought about opening the door a crack, but thought that they would see her and then this moment would be ruined forever by her, and I just can't live with that. Then she heard definite sounds of desperate kissing followed by soft moans. Then conversation interspersed with the sounds of them snogging.  
"Cho-I'm so sorry.I never-"  
"Shh, it's ok now."  
"Do you want."  
"Yes, oh yes, but not-"  
"Upstairs?"  
"My room, Padma's visiting her mother."  
With a start, Ginny realized that Cho and George were going to open this door and find her seated on the floor, listening to them. She got up too quickly, put her hand out to steady her spinning head, and took the stairs two at time. I'll hide in the bathroom, no one will be in there now, she thought, managing to get the door mostly closed before she heard George and Cho scramble up the stairs and into Cho's room.  
Ginny sat down on the tile floor, wrapping her arms around her knees, filled with a desolate sadness, feeling incredibly envious of George and Cho right now.  
She didn't move until one of the cats that hung out in the building rubbed against her legs, begging to be fed. "Hey, baby, hungry? Me too." She pulled open the bathroom door cautiously, then crept down the hall, noticing that Cho's door was still closed and George's shirt lay on the floor. Picking up the damning evidence to tease them later, she pulled it over her head and hurried into the kitchen.  
"Omelet?" she asked the cat, who meowed. Ginny summoned eggs, a bowl, mixing spoon, and inside ingredients, then began to make herself a scrumptious omelet she didn't plan on sharing with anyone except the cat.  
Twenty minutes later, finished eating the omelet and nursing a cup of tea, Ginny glanced up to see Padma coming in through the side door. "Good morning. How's your mother?"  
"Oh, she's ok, got a bit of a cold, but I made her take some Pepperup potion before I left. Anyone else up?" Padma asked, unwrapping herself from the overlarge cloak she had on. It looked like one of the guys', maybe Fred's.  
"Uh, not any more," replied Ginny, smiling into her tea.  
"Ok, well, I'm going to take a power nap before work," said Padma, crossing the kitchen.  
"I think," said Ginny carefully, "that you might want to use my room instead, seeing as Cho and George are in your room at the moment."  
"Cho and-and George?" repeated Padma, her mouth making an O in astonishment. "Really?" Ginny nodded. "They finally-?"  
"Yup."  
"They did it?"  
"Uh-huh."  
"In my room?"  
"Be glad you weren't there."  
"This morning? Oh, that's so great!" said Padma, sitting down at the table with Ginny. "You have no idea how much I've had to put up with, Cho's only been moping over George for at least six months. Maybe I can switch rooms with someone now."  
"Well, you can keep planning your room switch, but I can't help. I've got to go shopping for us," said Ginny, getting up to put her dished in the sink for someone else to wash.  
"Huh? I thought Fred did that?"  
"Uh-uh, he's been so busy with planning and working with Malfoy about the extra work that he hasn't had time to go, so I thought I'd do it since I got up early."  
"I'll see you later, then."  
"Yup, bye," waved Ginny as she pulled on Padma's borrowed cloak and walked out the door. It was cold and rainy outside, so she wrapped herself tighter inside the fuzzy cloth as protection from the outside surroundings.  
All of the once cheerful shops that had created Diagon Alley were gone. Ginny had passed this way so often that she barely felt the painful tugs of memory pulling at her heart strings for the shops of old, when people gathered outside just to talk and happy talk could be heard everywhere. Now, as everyone had to support the Death Eaters, they all catered to their dark tastes in magic, books, jewelry, and even ice cream. "Sparkling Stars 'n' Strawberries" no longer existed as an ice cream flavor, as it had been deemed "too indulgent in the foolish fancies of the misguided populace." The ice cream flavor most often eaten by young, evil Death Eater children was "Troll Turds" now. Even the Quidditch shop made Firebolts in black color schemes.  
So instead of walking slowly and window shopping, Ginny hurried quickly down the streets that once held so much joyful fascination for much of her youth and now only depressed her. She managed to avoid a trio of Death Eaters on a corner, afraid they might recognize her from the restaurant and offer their rude company on her, and quietly entered the apothecary. Inside she found rows and rows of potions supplies, with the more exotic varieties up front to entice shoppers and the mundane in the back. Grabbing a basket, Ginny worked her way through the store, pausing every now and again to consult the list Fred had conveniently left inside the pocket of the cloak.  
The only thing left is beetle eyes, she thought after crossing off feverfew. And that was actually near the counter, she knew, because it was a bargain item. She reached the huge barrel of wings and began scooping them into one of the bags provided. And she couldn't help but overhear a women talking to the man behind the counter, two Death Eaters she noticed with a start, That's Mrs. Lestrange, the evil bitch!  
"And I was telling my husband that of course I'm right, I'm always right, right?" The man behind the counter laughed with Mrs. Lestrange. "Of course I am. And I tell you, it's really just a huge joke, don't you think? That we've got some silly fools running around our noses, working their asses off for their pathetic resistance that they think is some huge secret!" They both cawed with laughter, but Ginny didn't hear them. She stopped listening when she heard the word "resistance." Do the Death Eaters know about us? She couldn't tell from the little she'd heard. Thinking quickly, Ginny spilled a scoop of beetle eyes on the floor, then knelt to pick them up. Working very slowly and clumsily, she could hear Mrs. Lestrange talking.  
"Yes, of course it is! And do we laugh about it at my parties!" she was telling the other man.  
"Have you caught any of them yet?" he asked her.  
"No, there's no need to. They're like an infestation of chizpurtles, just let them go about their silly antics and it's much less trouble than if you actually went about destroying them. Right now, seeing as they've proved incompetent enough to cause problems, there's so need to bother." Mrs. Lestrange leaned over the counter to whisper into the man's ear; Ginny had to scoot closer across the floor to hear her. "And if I can tell you something in confidentially, we haven't even bother to figure out who's all in this rebel group, that's how sorry it is!" They both laughed, finding that extremely useful piece of information very funny.  
Ginny, on the other hand, felt faint, but stood up and projected calm she didn't feel. She waited in line behind Mrs. Lestrange, who stopped gossiping with that man and left, paid for her purchases, then fled from the store and down the street toward the restaurant, cursing their naïve stupidity the entire way home.  
  
Ron was standing over the sink, sipping at George's coffee while looking over some plans he'd started making for their mission. He winced; the coffee wasn't that good this morning. George must've been distracted, he thought. The parchment he held in his largish hand was covered in sketches and measurements, dates and times, names and places. Not able to read what he'd scribbled in the corner, Ron turned the parchment this way and that, trying to make sense of it.  
"I give up!" he sighed, slurping the rest of his coffee and turning to put the empty mug in the sink when the side door burst open. His sister flew into the kitchen, her face and hair dripping wet from the rain. "Hey, Gin, you're soaked, let me-"  
"Ron," she gasped, "Ron, I just-found out-something horrible."  
He moved over to his sister and helped her into a seat. She was trembling something fierce and now that he was close to her, he could see that her face was flushed as if she'd been running and her breath came in shaky gasps. "Calm down, what's wrong?"  
"It's horrible-they're all laughing at us-big joke," she said brokenly, trying to take deep breaths but her chest kept hitching up in dry sobs.  
"Gin, wait here, let me go get Fred," said Ron, already rushing out to find his brother. Ginny obviously had heard something to upset her, but she couldn't tell anyone until she calmed down. This way, he could get someone besides just him to listen and give her time to stop freaking out.  
  
"Fred? Hey, Fred, where are you?" he called up the stairs, listening for an answer.  
"Mmpffh, not here," came from his room. Ron shook his head while running over and pulled the door open.  
"Ginny's just got back from shopping, she's pretty freaked out, I think you need to talk to her," said Ron, shooting his brother an irritated look as Fred pushed a sleepy Angelina off his chest. As he followed Fred and Angelina out into the kitchen, he muttered, "And I thought teenagers were bad-you two are without shame."  
"I heard that, boy," said Angelina, poking him in the stomach. "I'm gonna get you-"  
"Later," said Fred over his shoulder. He asked, "Ginny, what's wrong?" as soon as he got into the kitchen.  
She raised her still-flushed face to them. "I just heard-"  
Fred raised his hand. "Where were you?"  
"At the apothecary," she said, "and Mrs.-"  
"When? Just now?" interrupted Fred again.  
"Yes!" snapped Ginny. "If you'll shut up, I can tell you!" Fred merely motioned that she go on. Ginny continued, saying "At the apothecary, just before I got home, on this rainy today-" glaring at Fred, "-I overheard Mrs. Lestrange and that creep behind the counter talking."  
"So? I'm sure they were just discussing what type of garlic to torture their resident vampires with," said Angelina, now sitting on the kitchen table.  
"No, they weren't!" protested Ginny. "They were talking about us!"  
"Surely," began Fred carefully, "surely you mean the restaurant, right?"  
"No, I don't," said Ginny, shaking her head wildly. "I mean, they were talking about the resistance!" she finished in a fierce whisper.  
"What!" squawked Ron and Fred together. Ron moved in front of his sister and grabbed her arms, trying to remember not to shake her to get answers out of her faster. "They were talking about us? Like, they know about the resistance?"  
"Yes," cried Ginny bitterly. "They know all about the resistance, that we're based here, right under the Death Eaters' headquarters, and the fact we don't actually do anything! They think we're a huge joke, something to laugh about at their fancy parties!"  
"A joke," repeated Fred in a dazed voice.  
"All that we've sacrificed," said Angelina, "just a joke for these rich, fat asses to laugh at."  
Ginny just nodded her head sadly. Ron couldn't believe it. The Death Eaters knew about their Resistance? Did they even care? "Gin-do they know who's in it? Do they have our names? Are we in danger right now?"  
"No, they don't even know who we are," she answered, "but it's not because they can't find out, it's just too much work to bother, seeing as we're such a threat and all."  
"They have almost caught me a few times," said Angelina slowly, "if not for some tip-offs you've provided me."  
"Thanks for being nice, but that's not a threat big enough to get us out of joke status," said Ginny, glowering at the floor.  
"True," said Ron, thinking about the parchment covered with ink he'd left beside the sink, feeling his brain detach itself from his rage-filled body and enter a cool, logical place filled with imagination and magic. "That's true, but not for long. We've got the advantage-the Death Eaters don't bother to take us seriously, so they won't be looking for us very hard. Not now, and not before the party. So if we play it safe, like we've been doing," he said with a wry smile, "if I come up with a badass plan, we could hurt them like they've never been hurt because they won't be expecting it."  
"The element of surprise," added Angelina, her initial look of shock fading to be replaced by something stubborn. "You're right, if we play our cards right, we could walk away with the house."  
"I can be right sometimes," said Ron in a pretend-hurt voice, already tuning the conversation out. He wanted to get away from everyone now, hole himself up in his room, and let ideas come to him, dancing amid memories of dead friends, wearing their beloved faces on white skeletons, enticing him with their promise of success, seducing him with assurances of glory and honor. He wanted to sit alone in the darkness and watch his fingers sketch out plans without knowing where his ideas came from, but not caring because of the immense value of them, knowing how daring they were. Ron walked out of the kitchen, not listening to Fred and Angelina making Ginny go over the conversation again, this time verbatim so they could be sure the resistance was still safe. He made it up the stairs and into his room, stumbling over a pile of laundry on the floor.  
"Accio quill! Accio parchment! Accio ink!" he cried, grabbing both out of the air before sitting down on the floor. He needed space to work and pushed everything else out of his arms' reach. Then he pulled a piece of parchment before him and let go, forgetting how alone he felt every night, dismissing the hurts he'd accumulated over the years, washing away broken dreams by chasing after the one chance he might have to change it all. 


	3. Part III

Part III: Living in Hell  
  
Begin at Part II, same time, different place, different people.  
  
A young, nervous voice interrupted the deathly silence of the hallway. "I'm sorry, er, miss, but you can't go in there, it's a private meeting."  
Hermione glared at the young guard standing at attention with his wand out at the door. She didn't recognize him. The normal guard was old and fat. He's probably transferred to the kitchens, she thought, irritated that this fool didn't know who she was and why he didn't treat her with proper respect. She asked sharply, "You're new here, aren't you?"  
"Why, yes I am, just started-" the guard began to say, as if pleased someone would notice his promotion, but Hermione cut him off before he could finished.  
"You're new, so I won't put the Cruciatus curse on you for your blatant incompetence until you're begging for mercy, which shouldn't take long, and then I won't put you in a full-body bind and make you wait for the cleaning hags to take you down to the dungeon where you'll rot for a few years. You're new, so I'll just tell you that if you don't let me into that room right now, the Dark Lord will have your head on a silver plate for Nagini to eat for dinner. So let me pass. Now." Her voice was low, but the threats she promised were carried to the guard ears on words said with force behind them.  
The fool began to tremble, stuttering, "I, um, just-if you say so." He stood aside and opened the heavy door to a chamber opening to a balcony that overlooked the west side of the castle. Inside the room, Lucius Malfoy sat reclined in a leather chair while Voldemort stood playing with his snake, Nagini. They ignored both the guard and Hermione, continuing with their conversation.  
Completely unnerved by this time, the guard said, "My Master, this woman presumes to-"  
"Presumes is correct, but you are also wrong," snapped Lucius from his chair. "The Lady Hermione is allowed in when she is sent for. Stand aside."  
"Of course. My apologies," bowed the guard. Hermione cursed the mental facilities of the Death Eaters again, walking inside the room to sink to her feet before Voldemort. He flicked red eyes to her kneeling form, and placed a finger on her shoulder, giving Hermione the signal to get up. She rose slowly and, keeping her body half-bowed, sat on the ottoman at Lucuis's feet. Then the Dark Lord's gaze moved to the guard, who was still standing in the doorway.  
With a cold voice, Voldemort asked, "What is your name?"  
"My, er, name?" stuttered the guard.  
"Your name, fool! What is it? Or are you too stupid to understand such a simple request from your master! How on earth did you get this post anyway?" said Lucius viciously. Hermione grinned to herself. This fool has certainly earned it now, a cell in the dungeons, with the finest service offered by the torture slaves.  
"Simon Rookwood, my master."  
"Rookwood? Are you Augustus's son?" said Lucius, curiosity mingling with disgust in his cold voice.  
Rookwood answered humbly, "No, my master, I'm one of his nephews."  
"I see that corruption and rot are things that I shall never be rid of, no matter how hard I try or how many new eras I begin," spoke Voldemort, now giving Rookwood the full force of his gaze. The guard's trembling increased and Hermione noticed he had begun sweating. His discomfort amused her, for she had already learned her lesson whereas this idiot hadn't.  
"Yes, Master, well, the rest of us still retain our human weaknesses." trailed off Lucius, idly spinning his wand in his pale hand. Rookwood caught the movement and his face paled.  
Now Voldemort looked at his right hand. "Your son is no exception."  
"Yes," agreed Lucius without hesitation.  
"But what he does with his free time does not concern me, as long as there are no lasting effects." Hermione knew what they were talking about, but firmly held on the amusement she got from watching someone else squirm under the combined glare of Voldemort and Lucius. Really, it's incredible, I'd have thought the fool would have fainted by now. The Dark Lord continued to look at Lucius, then said, "Have him take care of Rookwood here, hmmm?"  
"Certainly," replied Lucius smoothly, then shouted at the guard, "What? Are you still here? Get out!" Gulping, the man turned tail and ran out of the room, remembering the pull the doors shut behind him.  
"Not only does Rookwood abuse my favor in him, he sends incompetence into my castle. Deal with him, Lucius," commanded Voldemort once the guard was gone. Hermione winced mentally for Rookwood. He was going to regret giving his nephew a job very shortly.  
"Of course."  
"And find someone for Nagini to eat."  
"Yes," said the blond man, then glanced pointedly at Hermione, who was still sitting on the ottoman, asking, "Did you wish to speak to Hermione?"  
"It would be my pleasure," purred the Dark Lord. He motioned for Hermione to rise with a gray finger. "Come closer, my pet. How are you tonight? Fall down the stairs again?" he asked, turning her head so he would peer at her neck.  
Hermione felt his dry, scaly fingers brush the bruises Draco had put on her neck. They were quite plain; a series of finger imprints in dull purple showed up clearly on her skin. She said, "Yes, I grow clumsy out of working so hard."  
"Well, I can't protest, you're just too useful," said Voldemort, removing his hand from Hermione's neck. "And you know the most amazing tricks. Why, at the dueling exhibition last week, you defeated nearly everyone, except myself of course."  
"Of course, my master." She bowed her head, pleased with his praise of her accomplishments, remembering the match. Most of the competition was made of old men, once formidable warriors, now dulled by the rich life they lived now. The only ones who gave her any trouble were the younger types. Draco hadn't competed, a fact she was very glad about. If I had dueled him, I don't think I would have been able to let him win. And then I would have paid for humiliating him later, she thought, feeling very gratified that he had only watched. And as she'd found out that same night, he'd been pleased with her performance as well.  
Voldemort continued discussing her, saying, "I daresay most everyone was shocked you made it that far. Weren't you, Lucius?"  
"I was." Hermione didn't dare move her head to look at Lucius when he answered their Master, so she couldn't tell whether he was angry or indifferent to her success.  
"Once you had beaten all my Death Eaters, I had to step in, in order to provide you with a challenge," said Voldemort indulgently. "I know they bore you, pet, but at least I make sure that it is clear to you that I am the master and you only my pet."  
"Always." Hermione lowered her eyes in respect, yet her voice had remained tense with unreleased anger. At least he can't see the hate in my eyes.  
"And have you mastered your new trick, pet?" The Dark Lord returned to the original purpose of her weekly visit. She was expected to show progress every week with the projects her master assigned to her. In the beginning of her captivity, she had been assigned to rework complex systems of wards for main Death Eater buildings. She also worked out any spells asked of her, often creating new spells specifically tailored for the task at hand, whether it was for keeping a person conscious long past the point of unconsciousness or creating a mini-weather system inside a room or a series of stronger building spells. Her recommendations they obtained through threats and torture included reworked defense plans, guard rotations, strategies for economic power, and suggestions for keeping the populace subdued. With her forced help, the Death Eaters rebuilt the wizarding world into what they wanted. Now, since Voldemort's empire was complete, she existed to do whatever he wanted her to do. Mainly to learn new tricks and perform them like a good pet to please her master, who held her life in his hands.  
Confident that she would please him today, Hermione said, "I have, my master."  
"Show me." A simple request yet issued without room for negotiating.  
"If I could have a test subject, in order to fully demonstrate the uniqueness of the tracking charm?" asked Hermione, her voice holding the precise amounts of authority and docility that she knew Lucius hated but Voldemort tolerated.  
"Of course. Lucius? Please invite someone to join us," Voldemort instructed Lucius idly.  
Lucius pulled up his sleeve and spoke into the Dark Mark on his arm. "Pulciber-report to the balcony room immediately."  
Coiling Nagini around his body, Voldemort lazily looked at Hermione. "Now, while we wait, explain to me how this works and what makes it so special."  
Clearing her throat, she began, saying, "Unlike ordinary tracking charms, this one is quite versatile. It can be applied without notice, aside from a slight tingling sensation, which most people will ignore."  
"What is the incantation?" interrupted Lucius, frowning.  
"Actually, a skilled wizard does not need to speak a verbal incantation, my master. If the spell caster fully understands the theory and arithmancy holding the spell together, visualizing the layers of spells, then with intense concentration, the charm is cast without speaking. This is one of the useful features of this spell, enabling the spell caster to charm someone without any chance of the target being aware of what is happening," said Hermione. She was quietly proud of her accomplishment, actually. After laboring on this charm for months, she had been ready to show it to her master, sure that he would find her results satisfying.  
"Really? That's quite useful, pet," the Dark Lord said. "I'd love to see it applied."  
"If you could distract Mister Pulciber when he comes in here, quiz him about something, so he doesn't notice me, then I will cast the charm on him. Then we can watch where he goes later. As it is the end of the daylight shift, we will not doubt find out what Pulciber does on his off hours." Hermione glanced from Voldemort to Lucius while she spoke, uncertain if she over stepped her boundaries in making such a request. But Voldemort merely twisted his lips in a half smile.  
Speaking up from behind Hermione, Lucius said, "I am interested in knowing if there are secret liaisons between our victim and a certain wizard in translations, actually."  
"Is that why you picked Pulciber?" inquired Voldemort.  
"Yes, is that choice acceptable to you, master?" The Dark Lord nodded, and Lucius grinned wickedly. Hermione knew what he was thinking and admired the impersonal way he chose to dispose of certain people who displeased him, as Pulciber had done recently when he accidentally spilled a Dissolving Solution on Lucius's dragon-leather boots.  
A knock at the door attracted Hermione's attention as someone stuck his head into the room. "Uh, Master, you sent, sent for m-m-me?" stuttered Pulciber, already afraid.  
"Yes, I need to ask you some questions," said Lucius impressively, standing up from his chair and motioning for Pulciber to enter. Then Lucius proceeded to interrogate Pulciber about his work for the day, asking questions about miniscule details and causing the man to become quite flustered. Lucius continued to verbally torture Pulciber until he sensed that Hermione had finished, or, thought Hermione until the Dark Lord's attention waned. Casting the spell was easy compared to all the effort she had put into creating it; it took less than a minute. Reluctant to bore his master, Lucius dismissed the man with, "You may go.  
"That was impressive," said Voldemort. Hermione knew he had been watching her while she cast the tracking spell on Pulciber to see her concentration and how she did it. "Now, how does it work?"  
"Through this bubble," Hermione began, swishing her wand so that a large bubble emerged in the air in front of Voldemort. It was hazy around the edges, but inside appeared a hallway, with people walking randomly around. "We can watch all of his actions. The visual linkage spell is actually applied to the area between the target's eyes, instead of to his eyes. This way we avoid the blackouts in visual information that comes every time the target closes his eyes. Still, we see everything he sees."  
"And do we just see things?" said Lucius, who had now walked over beside her to peer into the bubble.  
"No, no, we can get audio information as well." Hermione moved her wand again, eager to show off her work, and noises began to emanate from the bubble: voices talking, shoes clicking on the stone floor, breathing. "Now we hear everything around him, what he says, what other people say, background noises, everything. If the spell caster desires, he can reduce certain noises to concentrate on voices, for example."  
Voldemort raised his red eyes to look into Hermione's brown ones, which she lowered respectfully to the floor. Then he looked at Lucius, as if appraising the interest level in the room. "Let's see where he goes, hmmm?"  
They watched as if through Pulciber's eyes as he made his way through the castle, greeting the wizards he passed, seeing where his eyes moved. Pulciber eventually entered the translation department, a set of rooms delegated to deciphering any old texts or languages found. Their victim greeted another man by name with a casual air, asking him if the supply closets had been inventoried. Francis, as the other man was called, wasn't sure, so the pair made their way into a closet. The three watching followed Pulciber's eyes as he closed the closer door firmly, then trailed up Francis's body, lingering on his waistband and lips. Hermione frowned, guess what was next. And she was right, as the images they were receiving moved erratically, jumping from spots on the ceiling to various places on their bodies. The enthusiastic moans proved that the audio spell was working fine.  
Hermione shifted position, feeling bored, as the images began to show Pulciber's arms grasping his partner's shoulders, then the ceiling as they heard Pulciber urge Francis on, telling him what to do in great detail. Sneaking a peak at Lucius, Hermione noticed the bored expression on his face. It figures that watching these two fuck off won't even interest him, she thought, then glanced at Voldemort. His face was impassive, but then it normally appeared that way to Hermione. She could only read two of his facial expressions: anger and amusement, for both caused his gray, scaly face to actually shift position. Right now, Voldemort's face was cooling studying the images before him, but without intensity or interest. Hermione mentally shrugged, thinking to herself that it would only make Voldemort scarier if he got off watching two homosexual guys do it in the supply closet.  
After Pulciber's cried of pleasure passed their peak and the images shifted to show the side wall, indicating that Pulciber was bending over, Voldemort said, "It appears you were correct, Lucius, regarding our Mister Pulciber's off duty activities. Because they are still within my castle, I do not approve. Please go interrupt them."  
Lucius nodded curtly then left the room. Hermione watched him go, thinking how amusing it would be for them to watch Lucius storm in on these two fools in the middle of their sexual excitement. Lucius certainly had an evil gleam in his eye, she thought, definitely glad that she could protect herself against this kind of tracking charm. It was a horrible sort of evil that allowed her to watch and listen to anything anyone did. She had no right to peer into another person's intimate life, to be privy to all their most secret things, yet the morals of this situation didn't really bother Hermione. She knew that she'd never be tracked like this, nor did she care about anyone who might be tracked in the future. As she'd found out during her first project as a slave in for the Death Eaters, there was no room for morals inside this castle.  
Hermione was left alone with her thoughts while Voldemort continued to study the image bubble. Then he said abstractly to her, "I don't understand sex, pet. Of everything that exists in this world, life, death, war, emotions-I understand them, know how to use them as weapons, with subtleties or brutality. Sex as a weapon I can understand. But I fear I will never grasp the human desire or lust for sex. For example, why these two? Why does Pulciber desire another man? And why couldn't they wait until they were alone in their flat instead of here, were Lucius will come charging in and humiliate them? I don't understand." Voldemort sighed, then asked Hermione, "Do you?"  
Swallowing any regrets she had about her own life, Hermione said, "I think so, my master."  
"What do you think?" Voldemort's face was blank to her, but Hermione got the vague feeling that he knew what he was doing, that he knew he was tormenting her with these questions of an intimate nature.  
"I understand how sex can be a weapon, a tool." And that's all I know, she thought bitterly, ignoring her dried-up teenage dreams of love that kept clamoring for attention in the back of her mind.  
"Yes, I imagine you do," said Voldemort coolly. Certainly he knew, she thought, he knew everything that went on in his castle.  
"But I do not know the love that must be a part of sex," continued Hermione. "I fail you in that regard, master." She bowed her head.  
"That's fine with me, for I do not grasp love either. And I daresay that you won't, not with the young Malfoy around?" Hermione looked up at Voldemort's face sharply, seeing his mouth curl in amusement. Any sort of pain amused him, especially of those he prized.  
Changing the subject, Voldemort asked, "When do you think Lucius should interrupt them?"  
"While he comes, in a few moments, my master, if your desired effect is the complete shame of both," said Hermione.  
"It is." Turning his head to speak into his Dark Mark Voldemort said, "Very well, Lucius? You may enter.now."  
They watched the image leap from the wall to the now open door, with the terrifying figure of Lucius outlined in light. Lucius's angry voice faded in and out among the confused babbling of Pulciber and Francis. Stroking Nagini's head, the Dark Lord said, "I tire of watching this, pet. How does one end the spell?"  
Raising her wand, Hermione said, "Finite Incantatum!" The bubble vanished, as all noises from the scene they had just been watching stopped as well.  
"Is it possible to block the spell from being cast on you?" Voldemort asked her.  
"Only if you know how to use it, or are heavily shielded, my master."  
"And you will come tomorrow to instruct me, correct?" Hermione nodded, bowing her head again. Voldemort smiled indulgently as her, saying, "Good. Ah, Lucius, did you take care of that distasteful display of inappropriateness?"  
Pulling off his gloves and returning to his original seat, Lucius said, "They're both being sent to the dungeon for later interrogation."  
"Well, I can see this gave you no trouble, my pet. I'll just have to give you something harder. Lucius?" Voldemort walked to the chairs in front of the fireplace, indicating for Hermione to follow. She scurried over and sat down on the ottoman with her eyes averted to the floor.  
Clearing his throat, Lucius said, "The Death Eaters grow weary of government and seek a challenge. You will provide it for them."  
"How?" asked Hermione, still carefully studying a spot on the marble floor.  
"Think, pet, think," chided Voldemort. "What are the Death Eaters like? It's all right, you can be frank with me, I know what you think."  
Taking a deep breath, Hermione replied honestly, "They're stupid, greedy men who serve you because you reward fear with power."  
"Correct. And what do they like most especially?" Now Voldemort's face showed amusement, thought Hermione as she raised her eyes to look at her master to answer him.  
"Abusing power."  
"Again, my pet proves how clever she is, don't you agree, Lucius?" The other man just grunted, but Voldemort looked at Hermione with something dangerous in his expression. "Prove your cleverness again, pet, by correctly telling me what sport my Death Eaters would most enjoy?"  
She thought of their innate cruelty encouraged by Voldemort and of their laziness brought about by their luxurious lifestyle they'd had since the rise of this empire. Only one sport would suit these people. "Hunting."  
"Hunting what?" Voldemort asked her, now looking pleased with how quick she caught on.  
"Muggles." Muggles. Filthy muggles. I'm surprised I didn't say mudbloods, because we're even worse than silly muggles, who can't help but be captured by wizards and have no concept of magic. But we do, we're magic folk tainted with worthless muggle blood, an unnatural mixing of races, deserving of our fate. Hermione stopped her internal flow of thoughts, not wanting to lose herself in anger and bitterness in front of Voldemort and Lucius, not now when she had to pay attention or face the consequences of an attention lapse. The standard punishment for that was bouts of the Cruciatus curse interspersed with mental games that provided relief or more pain, depending on how observant the victim was.  
"I think she's too clever for her own good, Master," said Lucius, his silky voice cutting into Hermione's thoughts.  
"No, she's still my pet, still bound to servitude, still subject to my whims. And now she is merely pleasing me. Please me, pet," urged Voldemort. "Make something to please my Death Eaters. I expect to see progress within a week or I shall turn a blind eye to anything unfortunate that might befall you at the hands of Lucius's son."  
Hermione inclined her head again, saying, "Of course, my master."  
"And for your adeptness, pet, a gift, an addition to your suite. I must be sure to keep my pets happy and comfortable, right?"  
Cursing the joy Voldemort took from treating her like a pet, she managed to say, "My gratitude, master," without growling it, but all the same, Hermione feared that too much anger had seeped into her voice.  
Snapping at her, Voldemort said, "The day you feel true gratitude for me is the day I renounce the Dark Arts. Be gone from my sight before I grow weary of your insolent sarcasm. If I see you again before a week is up, you will be disciplined severely by me, Lucius, and anyone else who wishes it."  
Hermione stood up quickly, bowed low to Voldemort and Lucius, then turned and walked carefully out of the room. She did not flee, as every nerve in her body screamed at her to do, for the Dark Lord had begun to get angry at her, and she did not want him angry with her for he held nothing like mercy within his inhuman mind. It was much better to have Lucius or even Draco mad at her than Voldemort. Outside in the hallway, Hermione blew out the breath she'd been holding and started toward the stairs.  
As she walked toward her rooms, her black robes billowed behind her and a scowl fixed itself on her face. Despite the success of the tracking spell, Hermione felt no joy from her accomplishments. She only took pleasure from working on a spell, discovering an artistic and original way to do the same old thing. Showing off was nice, but since Voldemort and Lucius were never generous in their praise, they only making a day like this a torturous walk on hot coals.  
A group of servants ahead were trying to negotiate a cart full of fine dishes and glasses down the hallway toward one of the meeting rooms, presumably for dinner, but as Hermione still grumbled silently about the lack of appreciation for her hard work, (two months of constant work, looking up ancient spells, testing them, rewriting basic equations, testing my spell again and again, finally positive it works, and all I get is another assignment! Ungrateful Death Eaters! If not for me they wouldn't have this nice, safe castle to live in, or their toys, or.), she walked right into the cart. Dished fell the floor as servants babbled at each other, trying to clean up the mess.  
"What is this? You idiots! Get out of my way!" ordered Hermione, her path through the hallway now blocked by the cart, broken glass, and servants crawling around on the floor cleaning up.  
"Pardon, lady, but we have to clean this mess up. If you could please wait a moment?"  
She glared at the servant who had stopped picking up shards of glass to answer her orders with the normal disrespect. She snapped, "I don't have time to waste waiting for servants to clean up their messes!"  
"If you don't mind, my lady, this mess is your fault. You walked into our cart."  
Hermione was shocked at the nerve of this servant who dared to talk back to her. "If you hadn't been in my way, you clumsy fools, then this wouldn't have happened!" she sputtered, clenching her hand around her wand. She cried, "Then let me help!", flicking her wand through the air, conjuring up a broom that swept all the broken glass into a pile before attacking the servants. Smirking as the broom chased one of them onto a window ledge, Hermione continued walking toward her room.  
The animation spell on the broom would not stop until someone managed to break the wooden handle, a feat that would be difficult, as Hermione put a violent streak into the broom. It would have been almost amusing to watch those fools try to evade the broom, but Hermione was loath to spend any extra time in the hallways were anyone could find her. Thinking about a particular someone she wanted to avoid most put Hermione right back into her horrid mood.  
Other passing servants took one look at her face and cowered close to the walls to let her pass. Hermione smiled, enjoying the fact that the servants feared her, as they should. Even though she was a slave to Voldemort, she had certain powers and was definitely treated with respect from the entire staff of the castle. They knew better than to make her angry, for her years stuck in Voldemort's presence had allowed Hermione to learn a few nasty spells and relax her moral inhibitions.  
She was almost at the relative safety of her rooms when Hermione felt a hand slip around her waist and heard a cold voice whisper into her ear, "Mmm, darling Hermione, back so soon from a meeting with the one who holds your collar and leash?"  
She glared at Draco, disgusted with the feel of his breath at her ear, the warmth of his arm around her waist. "I thought that was you," she said, trying to walk faster than him to escape his presence. It didn't work, as his long legs easily compensated.  
"No, no," he purred into her ear, pulling back her thick hair with his free hand, "I hold the stick to beat you with if you piddle on the carpet. Our Master holds your leash. And how did you do? Was the Dark Lord pleased?" Draco stopped in front of her, his hands grasping her forearms, his gray eyes seeking out her averted face.  
"Yes." Willing herself not to tremble, to keep herself still, Hermione tried to think of something else to say, but words escaped her.  
"Why so short with me? I haven't done anything wrong, I didn't forget to owl you, did I?" He pulled her body close to his, trapping her arms between them, and wrapping his arms around her body possessively. One hand tightened around her waist while the other lazily played with the hair hanging down the side of her face. If a passing wizard saw the two of them, pressed up close against each other, he might think they were lovers, stealing a private moment in the hallway. That was what Draco liked other people to think, to have them gossip among themselves that Draco Malfoy was shacking up with the Dark Lord's pet mudblood. Moving his mouth to her other ear, he bit her earlobe gently, then whispered, "I know, I'll bet I know what's wrong. It's because you caught a glimpse of that new guard down at the stables, the one with red hair. And it reminded you of him, didn't it?" His hands had moved around to her upper arms and squeezed tightly as he spoke. Hermione shut her eyes against tears. Only Draco could make her cry so quickly.  
"Yes," she whimpered in pain.  
"I thought so. I'll just have to see if I can't drive that thought out of your mind, later tonight though, as I think someone needs to work on a new trick, hmmm?" said Draco, pulling his hands up to her face and kissing her lips with the kind of gentle kiss that appealed to the more romantically-inclined women who gossiped about them. Then he let go of her, smiling wickedly while saying, "Get busy and I'll stop by later with a treat."  
Hermione watched him turn and leave, presumably to deal with Simon Rookwood. She closed her eyes briefly, then fled to her rooms down the hall. Unlocking them with the key she wore around her wrist, she hurried inside and shut the heavy doors. Once inside, she collapsed into her favorite chair, a squashy leather chair that reminded her of the Gryffindor common room that no longer existed.  
Dealing with Voldemort and Lucius always exhausts me, she thought, massaging her temples. But Draco too. Nasty, disgusting creep! I hate him! Him and his father and Voldemort! Cursing the Malfoys and the Dark Lord fluently, but without real energy, more out of habit, in her empty room, Hermione stayed seated until she calmed down. Then she began to think about muggle hunting. How to do it? This is quite a problem. The hunters will need lots of space.and obstacles to get around to make the chase more enjoyable.and modified wands too. She got up, distracted by spells and charms running around in her head, moving slowly through her rooms until she reached the large, ornate mirror Draco had put in her rooms. Through this mirror, he could communicate with her in a quicker manner than through a fireplace. The spells he had ordered Hermione to put on it ensured that no one could be listening.  
Facing her image, Hermione brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. She studied her pale skin, pale like milk as she unable to get a tan from being indoors most every day. She wasn't able to leave the castle unless in the company of her master or one of the Malfoys. Fingering the bruises on her neck, she winced. They hurt worse now that she was actually thinking about them. Even though Draco had only done this to her two nights ago, the finger marks remained vivid enough to attract the Dark Lord's attention. Hermione wondered if Draco would hear about it, then decided he probably wouldn't, as the fact that Draco's beatings were one of the things Voldemort knew kept Hermione under control.  
And she needed to be under Voldemort's control, as she was a very powerful dark witch. The years she had spent living in this castle were not boring. After helping the Death Eaters rebuild their castles and take control of the economy, Voldemort needed a new project. He decided to make Hermione his personal pet, training her extensively and mercilessly in the Dark Arts, until she knew as much as Lucius and was probably just as powerful. Initially, Hermione eagerly went along with her exhausting lessons out of a burning desire to maybe learn something useful that would help her escape or somehow damage Voldemort, but as time went on, she knew her early goals were foolish. Despite her skill as a witch, she was powerless to escape. Voldemort knew too much about exploiting a person's weaknesses. He knew that once Hermione had been brave and stubborn like all Gryffindors, willing to die for a stranger, ready to fight to the death against evil, not one to compromise her dignity. But as the Dark Lord planned, Hermione saw that there was truly no hope left, that it was illogical to resist with energy. Once her spirit gave up, Voldemort had nothing to fear from her. Even the threats of death didn't mean much anymore, as Voldemort told her once that he had put too much time and effort into training her to just kill her for disobedience. Torture was always an option, either by Lucius's hand, Voldemort's, or one of the torture masters down in the dungeon. But Voldemort didn't have to threaten that often now, either. If she displeased him, somehow Draco would hear about it and then he's rage at her, curse her mixed blood, her stupidity, and then he'd beat her. No one ever said anything about her bruises. Sometimes he didn't want to get dirty, so he'd just use the Cruciatus curse on her, forgetting to take it off while sipping at expensive Florin nectar, causing Hermione to lose her voice for days on end.  
Draco also threatened to harm the Weasleys. He often taunted her with tidbits about them, telling her in detail how half their family had died, how their restaurant was struggling financially, how they ran a prostitution gig to help pay for things. But Draco knew that if he actually did something to the Weasleys, Hermione would refuse to work, as she'd told him before in a violent fight that if he ever hurt them, she'd figure out a way to kill herself and have him blamed. Lucky for me he believed me, thought Hermione, doubting that she could ever find it in herself for suicide.  
She knew, though, that the real reason she behaved as the Dark Lord's meek pet even though she could defeat all of his Death Eaters in a wizard's duel was the collar she wore around her neck. The smooth silvery metal sat on her skin, resting on her collarbones and wrapping around her neck closer than Draco's fingers. The surface was covered with intricate designs and arcane spells written directly on the metal. Voldemort had himself constructed it, claiming he wanted to show off his skill with magic. Hermione knew that her collar had been heated under the flames fueled by burning bodies and cooled in a vat of chimaera blood, adding to the magical properties already cast into it. The collar sat on her skin, but it was unable to be removed, for thin tendrils of the metal had been encouraged to sink into her collarbones and thread through her skeleton. It was physically impossible to remove the collar, unless Hermione cut out her collarbones, where the collar was most directly connected. And she simply didn't care enough to bother. It was hard to care about much now, when she was so tired all the time, working all day on projects and enduring Draco's wrath most nights.  
Draco really had no reason to abuse her, as she didn't do anything wrong very often these days. During her first year, she was endlessly exhibiting her stubborn streak, saying things she shouldn't, inciting Voldemort's anger. And then, after the Dark Lord was done with her and she'd limped back to her rooms, Draco would show up and beat her enough to put her back into bed for a week. Now, she only did as she was told and learned to be disrespectful while saying the right things. Draco simply raged at her because he didn't have much else to do.  
Hermione stared into her dark eyes, smudged with shadows. Her eyes were the best part of her features, taking up most of her face now after she had become thin and pale. Dark, brooding eyes. Smoldering eyes. Perfectly fitting for the dark witch that I am, reflected Hermione. Hateful eyes, caused by four years in this castle. Four years of living with pure evil, trying to resist evil, and in the end I've just become amoral. What would Ron think if he saw me now? she thought to herself, touching her face in the mirror. He would recognize me as a dark witch, an evil person, and he would hate me. "As he should, for I am evil for not resisting harder," she told herself in a whisper. "He couldn't love me," voicing her secret desire, long given up but not forgotten.  
Turning away from her crying reflection in anger, Hermione moved to a workbench. She decided to work on her secret project for an hour, then to switch to the problem of muggle hunting before Draco inevitably arrived. She muttered a few incantations then began to work on a time turner once the magically stored away device appeared before her. This was her last hope, a time turner. Voldemort ordered all time devices destroyed when he took power to prevent someone from going back in time to defeat him, but Hermione had been working on this one in secret for two years. She worked an hour or two a day, unable to work more in case someone would enter her rooms and discover her secret. She worked silently, afraid to even contemplate her fate if anyone found out what she was doing. Hermione was certain it would be far worse than just death. Everything she had experienced in this castle told her the same thing: death is a mercy, it's living that hurts.  
  
Heavy black cloak trailing behind her in the mud, Hermione grit her teeth against the rain and damp chill that rose from the ground in waves. Since becoming virtually imprisoned in the castle, she went outside rarely and had very little contact with the elements, namely rain and dirt. Lucius knew she hated getting dirty, so she was sure he took a special delight in dragging her off through the prison camps on a rainy day. He was looking for some prisoners to use in the trial runs of several spells Hermione had developed for the sport of muggle hunting. And because Hermione's presence with Lucius today was completely unnecessary, she had been invited to come.  
  
The camps consisted of large bunkers for the prisoners to sleep at night, a few mess halls, and mostly empty space so the poor souls could walk around and stare at their guards behind the humming magical barrier. Hermione knew the prisoners were fed horrible food, barely given enough clothes to survive, and were routinely tortured according to the whim of whatever guard was on duty. She also knew that if she had not been executed four year ago or saved by Voldemort, she would have lived in one of these camps.  
Hermione thought about how differently her life could have turned out while gazing at the rows and rows of prisoners assembled before them. Lucius glared down at the dirty skeletons, marching in between the rows and occasionally marking one for later with his wand. Hermione had to follow him; if she just waited by the gate, what was the point of bringing her along? The whole point is for me to get muddy and wet and grumpy and see how pathetic these people are. The point is to remind me of what happens to those who cross Voldemort or any of the Death Eaters, she thought, trying not to stare at the gaunt, unshaven, filthy faces as she walked past.  
A hoarse voice a row behind her interrupted her thoughts. "Hermione? That you?" She whirled around, trying to identify the source of the voice. Startled, she recognized the skeletal face of Dean Thomas. Dean? What's he doing here-oh, mudblood, like me, she thought. It's a wonder he's survived four years here. But he looks half-dead... His once cheerful face was so thin and unkempt that Hermione almost didn't recognize him. His voice was scratchy and his body looked like toothpicks under the rags he wore. She remained where she stood as Dean began to push his way toward her. At first she was curious to see him, but as he got closer and she saw the manic expression on his face, she found she couldn't move, was transfixed to the spot with shame and horror.  
"So it is you, Hermione! Prefect Hermione! Perfect Hermione! Come to gloat? Come to laugh at your old friends? I can see you've found new ones," Dean yelled, pointing at Lucius, who had backtracked to watch their interaction. Hermione couldn't move her eyes from Dean's flushed face. "You're a traitor, Hermione, a fucking traitor! Is this how you survived? By selling out your friends? That greedy for knowledge that you sold out your two best friends? You killed Harry! You killed us all!"  
"No." moaned Hermione, wringing her hands. She wanted to make Dean understand, tell him what happened, that she hadn't betrayed her friends, that these accusations against her, the same ones she hurled at herself nightly, the same ones Dead was now screaming for everyone to hear, weren't true. "That's now how it was, Dean, listen to me-"  
"Listen to the traitor? Listen to you? I don't need to hear your excuses, bitch! You're just as black inside as he is!" Dean ignored her completely, screaming for the entire camp to hear. "Look, it's Hermione Granger, the witch that sold her friends to the Death Eaters! And now she's one of them!" Hermione sunk to her knees, feeling faint from Dean's accusations that echoed her accumulated guilt of four years. "Look at the traitor! Just look at her grovel for forgiveness! It's because she knows it's true! It's all true!" Dean kept raving about Hermione and the Death Eaters. Soon he started to foam at the mouth and his accusations become more and more frantic. "You did it-killed-my mom-everyone-I'm gonna- deserve to die-let me go-get out of my head-fucking-bastards-out-head." His screams died down to a whisper and he grabbed his head, shaking it back and forth.  
Hermione looked at him, then asked aloud, "What's wrong with him?"  
One of the prisoners beside her, an old man with a pinched face answered, "The boy's crazy, you see? Goes on and on every night like this, never stops. Doesn't make sense most times."  
Staring wildly from the old man to Dean's tormented face, Hermione realized that four years in this prison camp had drove her old friend to insanity. He was becoming a mindless beast, she knew, watching Dean begin to tear at his skin with what was left of his fingernails, a creature that only wanted to die.  
"Lucius!" she cried, turning to face his steely gaze. "Please, help me, I have to help Dean-I, I knew him in school, oh please, let me help him," she babbled, crying, holding her hands out, pleading with Lucius, who stared at her impassively. "I have to do something, please, please, something, don't you see? It's not for him, more for me, I have to help him." She needed to help Dean right now, as a way of atoning for her crime of living with the Death Eaters. Lucius understood that, she knew, he understood most things about a person's mind and psyche. He held her eyes for a long moment. Hermione knew within her that begging for mercy from his man was a waste of her time, that she was only destroying her reputation with him, that this was useless, but she couldn't stop her tears.  
"Here," said Lucius suddenly, pulling out his dagger from his waist. "Here, take this," he said, thrusting it into her trembling hands. "You know what you have to do," he said in a voice like steel bands, turning her back around with icy hands to face the insane mudblood before her. Hermione looked down at the wicked edge of the dagger then stared at Dean, listened to his tortured mumbling for a minute, then moved forward.  
  
Hermione stumbled through her rooms, heading toward the bathroom. Once there, her stomach surged again, but this time she obeyed and threw up in the sink. Again and again she retched into the smooth curves of the sink, heaving until there was nothing left to come out. Panting, she wiped her face with a towel and rinsed out her mouth. Then she raised her eyes to look at her reflection.  
Her face was haggard, tired and lined. Fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth made her look older than she was, yet her large eyes, sparkling with tears still, added youth. She scowled at herself through her tears, but refused to look away. Her crying, blotchy face accused her of crimes, past and most recent. Hermione opened her mouth and said to herself, "I killed Dean Thomas," in a voice soft yet cruel. Cruel to herself. Refusing to make up some excuse for her actions. Forcing herself to say it out loud. "Poor Dean, lunatic Dean, sweet friend, dead by my hands." Instead of her face, the face of a Death Eater stared back at her behind the tears. She continued to look until she couldn't bear it any longer. Gasping, she crouched down on the ground and hugged her knees, rocking back and forth, sobbing aloud like a child. She had lost another friend, one more link to those happy days at Hogwarts, only this time she had killed him. Hermione tried to tell herself that it was a mercy killing, that Dean deserved something better than the life he was living, that he was forced to live. He must have thought it was all my fault, she cried to herself, cursing her weak heart. Her sobs echoed in the bathroom, obscuring the noise Draco made when he entered her rooms.  
"Hermione!" said Draco, loud enough to be heard over her frantic weeping. Her head snapped up, looking for him. He strode into the bathroom, bending his head down to hers so that his blond hair brushed against her face, sneering, "I heard what happened today. So how does it feel, clever girl? Now you're as dirty as me."  
"No!" cried Hermione, backing away horrified from him into the cool porcelain of the toilet. "No-it's not like that, I'm not like you, never!"  
"And now your hands are bloodstained like mine," continued Draco silkily, as if she hadn't said anything. "You're stained now that you've killed someone, but it's even worse because it was a friend." Draco paused, his eyes studying Hermione as she raised shaking hands to her face. Bloodstained? "Are you sure you weren't supposed to be in Slytherin? Your brave Gryffindor heart seems to have failed you now."  
Hermione stopped looking frantically at her hands for blood and glared at Draco. "You-you-" she growled, awkwardly getting to her feet. "You're horrid! I hate you! I hate y-" But Draco grabbed her wrists and pulled up hard. She was jerked off her feet and he threw her across the bathroom floor so that she landed crumpled in the doorway to her rooms.  
"You hate me?" Draco began to say in an intense, low voice. "You? I'm the one who should hate you! You conceited mudblood! You think you can run this place, don't you? Telling my father what to do, ordering servants around-you're nothing! Just a mudblood! Not even worth the price of your clothes," he yelled, grabbing at the front of her robes. Hermione flinched away, but she couldn't escape his cruel presence.  
"These clothes are too fine for your filthy body, but you get them anyway! And these rooms," he added, grasping her firmly to show her around the room. "These chairs, that Egyptian rug, those arithmancy texts, those potions, these curtains, that bed, all of it! You don't deserve-you're not worth it! You're not worth the price of beetle wings, much less all of this. But," Draco said, lowering his voice to whisper menacingly in her ear, "But the Dark Lord likes you, so you get all this. Your work pleases him. It pleases my father." He rubbed his nose across her cheek and down her neck. Hermione trembled against his hard chest where he held her firmly, his touch sending shivers of fear down her back. Reaching the delicate skin of her neck, Draco pulled back up to her cheek, purring, "You please everyone here," sending out his tongue to make a wet, hot trail down her face and ended at her neck, where he bit the skin hard. "You please everyone," he repeated, alternating each word with another bite. Hermione fought not to scream with horror. He finished, saying, "Except me." With those words, Draco shoved her hard down on the floor and kicked at her outstretched legs.  
Then he raised his arms and swept the closest tabletop clean, spilling everything onto the floor. He screamed, "You have taken everything from me! All these things should be mine! This-" he said, holding up a glass model of the castle, "-should have been mine, but instead it's yours!" And he threw it against the wall above Hermione's head. She covered her head with her arms as glass shards rained down on her. Draco flipped over a chair, swearing at her so loud that people in the hallway would have heard if Hermione's room had not been Silence- Charmed.  
"You're taken away everything that should have been mind," he accused, raging around her room, pulling things off shelves, breaking vials, ripping parchments to shreds, "including my father!" Hermione hugged her knees, her tears soaking her robes, shaking with fear. She felt so numb with guilt and fear, she couldn't think, could only hope that Draco would go on destroying her rooms and leave her alone.  
But he didn't. In the middle of ripping apart a pillow, Draco seemed to remember she existed and moved over to crouch in front of her. "And you, you're just like us now, just like me, just like the Death Eaters whom you've despised for so long. How does it feel?" he hissed, grabbing her hair and yanking her head up to look at his face. "How does it feel to be dirty and evil like us? You're worked for us, doing our precious tasks, silently condemning us for years behind those brown eyes of yours, and now you prove to be just as evil! So tell me, Hermione Granger," Draco yelled into her face, standing up and dragging her with him, "Tell me how it feels! Tell me how much it hurts!" He shook her body sharply, shaking her until Hermione saw stars. Then he threw her into the couch and began pulling down the curtains, yelling at her, cursing her. Hermione tried to sink into the cushions as Draco smashed the glass doors on her potions' cabinets, shutting her eyes against the sight of Draco rampaging around her rooms, but unable to stop his hateful voice.  
  
Thin moonlight shone through the window, illuminating in stark black and white the destruction of Hermione's rooms. Bits of parchment, cloth, and shards of glass littered the floor. Hermione had repaired the stool that Draco threw against the wall and was sitting in front of a table; the candlelight shining on the small, shiny object she was bent over. Brushing hair impatiently out of her face, she pulled a parchment covered with tiny handwriting toward her. Locating a line of spells, Hermione waved her wand over the object sitting on the table and low-pitched hum filled the room. She continued uttering spell words, causing the hum to increase in frequency to a high squeal until it stopped with a pop. Hermione leaned back, resting her hands on the table, looking at the finished Time Turner. MORE HERE ABOUT THE PROCESS? WHAT?  
It sat innocently on the table, golden metal framing the hourglass shape. Filled with white sand, it looked beautiful, like a symbol of freedom. Hermione reached out a gentle hand and picked it up, turning the golden shape to and fro in her hand, admiring the way the candlelight picked out details and twinkled in the darkness. The Time Turner, though smaller than her finger, weighed heavily in her hand. It was so special, she knew, filled with tired satisfaction at finally being done the secret hours of making it.  
After Draco had stormed out of her rooms as abruptly as he had arrived, Hermione sat crying on the couch for a while. Then she dried her tears and began to work on the Time Turner instead of restoring order to her rooms. That had been hours ago. Her back and neck felt stiff and her mind fuzzy, but she didn't mind. It was finished; her secret weapon was complete. Now I only have to use it, she thought. But I can't right now, unable to think of when she'd go back to, or what she'd do once she got there. Uncertainty filled her now that her initial elation over the completed Time Turner had dissipated. What should I do next? Use it? But what if I made a mistake somewhere and it doesn't work? And someone finds out? The prospect of someone discovering her secret horrified Hermione. That must never happen, no matter what the cost. But she knew that the disguising spells and wards she had placed on the Time Turner while working on it would keep it from being found. All she had to do was put it back under those spells and her secret would be safe from everyone, including Draco.  
He can't find out, thought Hermione, not him, he'd kill me, no matter what Lucius or Voldemort want, Draco would kill me, he'd be so mad. She knew that if Draco discovered her Time Turner, he would see it as a betrayal and his violent temper would not stop until he had strangled her with his hands. Shivering in the candlelight, Hermione hugged herself, still debating about what to do. If I hide it, then I'm still safe, no one knows, and I have a weapon to use. All I need is the right time. Yes, I'll just wait until the right time.  
She picked up her wand and said the necessary incantations to hide the Time Turner, first transfiguring it to look like tweezers, then banishing it to side-reality in the stone wall. A series of wards made the wall appear normal to sight and magical probes. Finished with hiding the Time Turner, Hermione looked around her room at the damage. With a sinking heart, she realized this would take at least a day to clean up and sort through. A day that I don't have, she thought, bitterly cursing Draco's selfishness. But I'm too tired to start now. Weaving a path through the rubble on the floor, Hermione reached her bedroom, thankfully intact. Curling up amid pillows and blankets on her unmade bed, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.  
But one thought kept nudging at her. It was Draco and why she was more afraid of him than Voldemort. The Dark Lord was the more dangerous wizard, she knew, having first-hand experience of the dark magic that he knew. And he lacked human emotions like mercy and empathy, making him ruthless in every action. Hermione knew that if he found out her secret, Voldemort wouldn't kill her but would transform her life into a living hell, bringing a new perspective to the clichéd phrase. Yet she was more afraid of Draco. Why was that? Why did this blond, sneering, cruel wizard frighten her so much? How had he gotten such power to make her tremble alone in her bed just thinking about him? Yes, Hermione might curse him inside her head, but she would never be able to say such things to his face. All Draco had to do was say the word and she jumped, asking how high. His silky whisper, lusted after by some women of the Dark Lord's court, would be enough to send any of them into orgasmic bliss, but it only made her curl up and beg for mercy. Every action he took was calculated to cause her pain somehow. Even his words, for these years she had been listening to them, cut deep and festered insider her mind, dulling her down, making her less than what she was. Hermione was dimly aware of the cumulative effect Draco had on her, but she couldn't think about it clearly anymore. Draco had boiled down things in her mind to a question of whether or not this action would displease him. And it was too hard right now, warm and sleepy in her bed, to think of another way to evaluate her actions.  
  
The next day Hermione spent cleaning her rooms. In the daylight, the destruction looked even worse than it had the night before. Yet Hermione grimly kept picking up things and repairing objects, knowing that if she didn't clean up then she couldn't work. If she didn't work, then she wouldn't have anything to show Voldemort when she was expected to meet him later this week. Somehow Hermione suspected that the excuse, "But Draco ruined my rooms!" just wouldn't work with Voldemort. So she worked her way steadily through the chaotic mess.  
A servant arrived around noon with her food just as Hermione was muttering, "Reparo!" at a pile of glass on the floor. The shards reformed to become the glass castle that Draco had hurled at the wall above her head last night. The servant waited in her doorway while Hermione looked at the model with wonder at the intricate detail present. The windows and door were exact, and the miniature gargoyles were lifelike, just like the real ones outside. The castle had been given to her by Voldemort to aid in one of early projects in assisting the construction of the magical defenses of the castle. She used it constantly for months, then discarded it to an end table, where it had slowly been covered by papers and other objects. It was a wonder Draco had found it at all, Hermione marveled.  
The servant at the door coughed discreetly and Hermione said in a distracted voice, "Just leave it anywhere." The girl looked around the room, already half-clean, and set the tray on the closest empty table. Hermione continued to work on the same corner of the room until she remembered she was hungry.  
Much later, after the sun had set and Hermione had finished dinner, she tried to replace the curtains to their former places at the windows. Everything else had been taken care of. While her room did not have the normal look of an absent-minded professor's office with stacks of parchments piled haphazardly in corners, held up with spells, there was still an indispensable element of clutter.  
It was taking her a while to hang the curtains up. The heavy material was coated with dust and she kept sneezing, causing her wand to go awry. The curtains, held up in the air with a Levitation spell, moved with her wand, sending another shower of dust to fall on Hermione. She sneezed violently and when she opened her eyes, saw someone's shadow falling across the floor in front of her. Turning, Hermione saw that it was Draco.  
"Hello, darling Hermione," he said, crossing over to her and pulling her wand out of her hand gently. She stared blankly at him, wondering if he wanted to rip apart her rooms again now that she had just gotten them back into order. "I'm so glad to see you," he said, pulling her by her hands into the bedroom.  
"Why is that?" she asked carefully, feeling very, very confused.  
"Oh," he replied, "just because," pulling her close and dancing awkwardly around the bed. He kept nuzzling her neck, tickling her, until Hermione giggled. Joining in with her, Draco pushed her back on the bed and crawled on top of her. Tweaking her nose, he said in a voice she would have called happy if she thought Draco could be happy, "Darling Hermione, you won't believe it."  
Trying to think, come up with something to say, Hermione gasped, "What? What won't I believe? Draco, are you-why are you in such a good mood?"  
"I am in a good mood!" chuckled Draco. "Didn't think it was possible? That's ok, dearest Hermione, sweet Hermione, I forgive you," he said, adding, "maybe" with a low growl as he began kissing her neck with such intensity that Hermione almost forgot this was Draco on top of her. Well, he certainly seems happy, she thought, reaching up her hands to hold onto Draco's shoulders as he moved lower, pulling her robes off, easing the straps of her simple dress down her shoulders, biting and kissing her skin, her breasts, her nipples. Almost playful.how strange. He's not normally so pleasant with me.  
"You won't believe it," he murmured against her belly while his hands pulled off the rest of her dress and panties, "what's going on, what I'm doing, it's incredible that he trusts me this much, he's finally treating me as an equal."  
"What?" said Hermione, latching onto what Draco was saying instead of what he was doing to her right now that made her head swim and her body grow hot and wet under his hands. "What is it? Tell me."  
"A party, an anniversary party," Draco said, "in a month, everyone's invited, going to be a huge celebration. And I'm in charge." Hermione fought to stay silent, refusing to give in to the desire to moan with pleasure at the nice things that Draco was doing to her right now with his hands and mouth between her legs. Shudders rippled through her body suddenly and a slight groan escaped her lips. She could feel Draco smile into her inner thigh before he sat back on his heels, saying, "So you can't resist me, huh, Hermione? Can't help but give in to me? Why don't you just give up, sweet Hermione, and enjoy my good mood while it lasts?"  
And Hermione wanted to, she wanted to let Draco do things to her that she knew he did to other women but not to her. Normally he just used her roughly, to fill his needs, and left her with the sheets on her bed still cold. But today, she could barely think anymore, today was so different, so delightfully different and rare.  
"If," she gasped in between shudders, "if you tell me?"  
Draco murmured yes into the soft skin between her breasts and she gave in to his desires, reaching with her hands for his shoulders, for the fasteners to his robes, tugging at his black shirt, unbuckling his belt. He became even more eager in his light, playful actions, seeming to enjoy making Hermione whimper with unfulfilled pleasure, teasing her relentlessly until she gave in completely and begged shamelessly for him to continue. She knew from the look he gave her before he settled himself inside her that he had won, that he had asserted his dominance over her again, proved once more that he was in control over her every move, but she couldn't care, she only wanted to stop hovering on this edge. She was willing to be his slave forever to experience the sensations he promised her.  
  
After they were finished having sex, for Hermione couldn't call it a fuck because it wasn't violent enough, and couldn't say love because she knew that wasn't part of it, they lay tangled together on her bed. The darkness played across their bodies, hiding details, making it all right to be lying naked peacefully beside the man she feared most.  
Hesitantly breaking the silence, but needing to satisfy her curiosity while Draco was still in a mood to talk, Hermione asked in a whisper, "Draco? Tell me about your good news, please?"  
He sighed and rolled over to face Hermione. "I went to Diagon Alley today," he said, envy welling up in Hermione's chest. She had not visited Diagon Alley since she helped piece it back together, nearly four years ago. "I saw Weasley."  
She gasped, eyes widening. But she didn't say anything to disrupt this rare moment of peace between her and Draco when he actually seemed willing to give her information.  
"My father made me in charge of getting this party together. I'm going to be quite busy, making security arrangements, hiring extra help," continued Draco, not noticing her sudden interest. "So I thought about who I should hire to help cater and serve at this party. And I couldn't help but think of 'The Last Chance'." Hermione knew from what Draco had told her before that that was the name of the restaurant the Weasleys owned. "So I made my way down there today and hired their meager staff. No doubt they need the business, even though their place is quite elegant. Maybe I'll take you there sometime, Hermione," he teased, pulling at her hair, his dark eyes filled with something she couldn't identify, "Maybe you'll get to see your dear Weasleys."  
"How-" she began to say, then licked her lips, watching Draco's eyes follow the movement. "How are they? Do they look ok?"  
"Yes, quite healthy I'd say. Pity," he muttered. "Fred has become a business man, very easy to work with. And the girl, what was her name, looks like a high-class waitress, but I'm sure that's just the clothes. Ron," he paused, his eyes narrowing. "Ron is tall and thin, with the trademark Weasley freckles and red hair. But he's changed, Hermione. I walked in there and saw him first. I expected him to say something, to challenge me somehow. I wanted to see something of that stupid Weasley courage that's so easy to provoke, but he didn't say anything. Just showed me to his brother. Why did he do that?" asked Draco, rolling onto his back. "Like he's finally learned to shut his mouth and avoid trouble, even though he was never like that before."  
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she had been able to see Ron, wondering what happened to him to change him like Draco said. A quiet Ron? A Ron that didn't give in to an opportunity to fight with Draco? She felt tears trickle out, hearing a choked sob, thinking it came from her until she opened her eyes and saw Draco staring at the ceiling with a tear running down the hard planes of his face. She reached out a hand, murmuring, "Draco?"  
"I envy him, Hermione, I hate him, but I still envy Ron Weasley, despite his poverty, despite his lowly station, despite everything," said Draco in a hoarse voice. "I looked around that restaurant and felt the love they all feel for each other. Even though they struggle, they have each other. And I envy that."  
"Oh Draco," said Hermione, cradling him against her chest, forgetting that this was Draco, and feeling her heart grow heavy with similar longing. "I know, I want that too," she whispered.  
He wrapped his arms around her and she felt his tears leak down between their bodies, then he stiffened up, saying, "Hermione, I-"  
"Don't worry," she soothed, "I won't mention this in the morning." Then he relaxed against her and they clung to each other in their loneliness for the rest of the night.  
  
Sipping her tea, Hermione thought that Draco seemed more comfortable in her rooms than she did. It was the morning after that very unusual night and she was reading over a notice sent to all important witches and wizards. It was funny, that she was marked a slave by the collar she wore, but she was ranked high enough to get these notices. This one was about the party Draco told her about, informing people of the ensuing excitement and instructing them on what to wear. She crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire.  
"You should have put that up where you'd see it," said Draco from behind her. He was leaning on the couch, twirling chunks of her hair around his fingers. "That way you won't forget." Hermione shrugged, knowing he was right, but she didn't care about parties or dressing up. It was a waste of time to her.  
"Don't you eat anything for breakfast?" asked Draco, irritably tugging at her hair.  
"No," she said. She was trying to muster up the courage to ask Draco something, but if he kept interrupting her thought process she'd never do it.  
"I'll order some then. Do you want anything?" he said, throwing some powder into the fire.  
"Whatever."  
He called out, "Kitchen!" and stuck his head in the flames. Hermione could hear his voice ordering food, being quite rude to the cooks, demanding that he see it at the door in less than two minutes or he'd come down there and show them how to cook. Then he flopped onto the couch beside her.  
Watching Draco fiddle with some star charts she had placed on the end table, Hermione again marveled at how comfortable Draco looked in her room. Even she wasn't this relaxed, not even in her own rooms. There was always the chance that he might come in or someone else could interrupt whatever she was doing. But Draco, when he wasn't screaming at her, always behaved perfectly at ease here. She wondered why he spent so much time in her rooms when he had his own suite in another part of the castle.  
His rooms, she knew from the very few times she had been inside, were very elegant, albeit with an overall Spartan air. They had a cold feeling, done in grays and blacks with touches of red for color. There was never anything out of place. She had never seen a sock on the floor or a book lying open on a table. He did use his rooms to entertain his Death Eater friends occasionally, or to enjoy one of the blond witches that he brought back from some silly party. Hermione knew about that because he usually told her about his encounters the next day in enough detail to make her queasy. She also knew that he had meetings with his father in his rooms. She supposed that was why Draco kept his rooms so clean and perfect, in case his father came in them.  
Maybe that was why he liked her place instead, she mused, letting her eyes wander over the bookshelves overflowing with books and scrolls, the tabletops piled with models and parchments and various magical instruments, the potions cabinets with their glass vials labeled in Hermione's now scratchy handwriting. She used to be so anal about keeping things organized, but then it had fallen apart on her. It took too much mental effort to be organized, so she let things go where they wanted. If she needed something and couldn't find it, then she just summoned it. That worked just fine. The clutter lent a cozy, lived in feeling to her rooms that she liked. And she supposed that Draco liked it too. It was a safe place for her, mostly, and, Hermione decided looking at Draco, half-hidden behind the star charts, it was safe for him too.  
Breakfast arrived while she sat thinking and Draco summoned it over to the couch. He placed the tray on the cushions between them and immediately began to eat. Hermione snagged a scone and poured herself another cup of tea. She watched Draco eat until most of the food was gone, silently building up her courage. When he had popped the last bite of toast into his mouth, she said very quietly, "Why can't it be like this all the time?"  
He looked at her now, chewing very slowly. After he swallowed, he said, "What do you mean?"  
Heartened by the fact that he hadn't started yelling at her yet, Hermione continued. "I mean, well, what I mean is-this is nice, isn't it? This is peaceful, right now, between us. Why can't it always be like this?" Draco didn't respond, only kept staring at her with dark eyes. Beginning to feel nervous, she said, "Whatever relationship we have, and we have one, even if it's fucked up, it could be like this all the time. You could-be nice to me, and then this feeling would go on every day and we'd both maybe be happy someday." The words left her quickly, coming out faster so he couldn't stop her. When she was done, Hermione peeked at his face, then looked into her teacup.  
The silence grew between them, becoming oppressive and stagnant. Hermione longed to know what Draco was thinking, but she didn't dare look at him right now, wanting instead to stay meek and hoping he'd say something, anything, soon.  
Draco stood up, brushing crumbs off his robes. Hermione raised her head slowly. He said, "You forget your place," all the earlier comfortable ease of the morning gone from his voice, in its place harsh anger. He glared at her for a minute, sending her the very clear message that she was wrong to suggest such a thing, then left her rooms with an authoritative air. Hermione sat by the fireplace, feeling as worthless as the shards of glass from her teacup that she had just thrown into the fire.  
  
The weeks went by, filled with the monotony of spending her days working in her rooms and experimenting outside with Lucius. Hermione made tremendous progress with the muggle-hunting project, throwing herself into it, forgetting to eat or bath, and worked all-night, catching naps during the afternoon. Every time she glanced in a mirror, all she saw were her eyes, large and accusing, mocking her with every stupid thing she had said to Draco. She was a fool for thinking she had any influence over him, Hermione told herself while working into the early morning hours when her mind drifted. She had no right to talk to him like that, she was his inferior. She always was and always would be a slave.  
At the moment it was late morning, although only people who had recently looked at clock could know that. Hermione sat digging through a heavy textbook on containment spells, searching for a spell that could turn on and off randomly to provide an element of surprise to the muggle hunt. When the door to her room opened, she looked up, startled. Draco lazily walked in, flinging his cloak on a chair.  
"You look horrible," he said. Hermione could feel his eyes moving up her scrunched-up form in the chair. "Bags under your eyes, pale skin, too thin." he said, clucking his tongue at her. "My, my, what have you been doing to yourself? Don't you know that you have to be gorgeous for the party tonight?"  
"P-p-party?" she stammered. "What party?"  
"Did you forget, my little slave?" said Draco. He stopped addressing her as "Hermione" now in private and called her "slave," to remind her of her status. She knew it was her fault, though, and didn't cry too much when he had hurt her for the christening of his new pet name for her. "The anniversary party, of course. The one I've been planning. I told you to keep that notice," he said, wagging his hand at her mockingly.  
"I should have listened to you," mumbled Hermione, flushing. "But Draco," she added, "I don't have time for a party, I have to finish these spell for the Dark Lord. I promised him that-"  
"Now, now, don't worry about that. I'm sure you've exceeded his expectations, haven't you, slave? Didn't he tell you that two days ago?" he needled. Hermione nodded, feeling herself grow numb with apprehension. She really didn't want to go to the party. She didn't want to deal with his expectations. "So you stop resisting and be sure to be ready on time."  
Draco picked up his cloak and opened the door. "Oh," he said over his shoulder, "I'll send a servant later with a dress to get you ready. And if you're not there, on time, looking beautiful, that bruise on your cheek will seem like a kiss when I'm done with you." He stayed long enough to watch Hermione nod her head once, then left.  
She reached up a hand to touch the bruise on her cheek. Last night, Draco had come in to see her trying to work out some arithmancy equations. Upset that she didn't give him the welcome he thought he deserved, Draco reminded her once again who she was, hitting her and waiting for her to repeat his words. He slapped her across the face, her head jerking to one side with her body held still by the weight of Draco's body pressing her up against the wall. "What did I tell you?" he growled, raising his hand again. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'm at fault, I messed up-" "Wrong!" Another vicious slap on the same cheek. "I don't deserve your forgiveness," she said brokenly, "I'm just a mudblood, not worthy." "Not worthy for what? What?" he demanded, backing away from her, watching as she fell to the ground, clutching her ribs from where he had kneed her. "Please," she said, falling on her knees and bowing her head, "please just don't hurt me anymore, not tonight, please." "Crucio!" Draco had cried then, watching as Hermione writhed on the ground in pain, feeling knives slice into her skin, twisting sickly. When he took off the curse, he said, "Say you're mine, for always, and I'll leave you alone for tonight." She begged in a whisper, "I'm yours, Draco, always, I always have been, please, please, let me go, stop doing this, please." "Good," he said, grasping her chin and twisting the skin cruelly, "Just as long as you please me."  
Hermione shut her mind from last night and pulled her hand away from her cheek as if it was on fire. The physical pain almost didn't hurt as much as what Draco did to her dignity and soul. She tried to keep working on those equations, but kept wandering off to wonder how much worse her life could get.  
  
"Excuse me, miss," came the soft voice of a servant. Hermione waved her hand, indicating for the servant to enter, without looking up from her book. "Lord Malfoy sent me to your rooms with strict instructions to get you ready for this evenings festivities," the servant said in a firmer voice. Hermione glared at her, frowning, but closed the book. She did not want someone else getting beaten because of her. And she knew the servant spoke of Draco, not Lucius. Only Draco with his selfishness would send someone to make sure she got ready for tonight. Lucius wouldn't care what she looked like, even if she was wearing nothing except a pair of socks, as long as she was at the party.  
"What do I have to do?" she said, looking the servant over. She was a woman older than Hermione, maybe in her thirties, but had a definite air of servitude about her, in addition to something matronly.  
"Just let me work," the woman said smoothly, leading Hermione to the bathroom. "First you need a bath, I don't know how long you're been working, but a hot bath will make you feel much better," she was saying while turning on the taps and pulling off Hermione's clothes.  
After the bath and a thorough scrubbing, Hermione was rubbed all over with a mild scented oil then instructed to stand nude in the bathroom while the servant would be "right back with your dress." Hermione sighed, hugging her scented skin and feeling out of place. It was odd to be waited on in her bathroom.  
"Whose servant are you normally?" she asked of the older women when she returned with a dress and underwear.  
"The Lady Malfoy, before she died," the woman answered. Hermione nodded, knowing then that this woman would be able to make her look acceptable for the evening. Narcissa Malfoy always looked perfect at every social function and indeed whenever Hermione saw her. Even while lying in her deathbed, Narcissa looked like a beauty queen. She had died a year ago. Hermione had been brought to see her in hopes that she could determine the cause of the blond woman's illness and cure her, but the best Hermione could do was determine that it was not natural. She suspected that Lucius's wife was being poisoned, but she wasn't sure by whom. Not that she cared to try any harder than was necessary. It was probably someone with a grudge. Narcissa had been a cruel woman, delighting in humiliating Hermione at every social event that Hermione was forced to attend. The only good thing about this party, thought Hermione, is that Narcissa won't be there to laugh at me.  
Stumbling a little while stepping into the lacy underwear, Hermione gasped when she saw the servant pull out a black garter belt to go with her nylons. "I'm going to be wearing that?" she said, astonished.  
"Just wait till you see the dress, dearie," chuckled the woman, helping Hermione into the garter belt.  
"I've never worn one of these before," she whispered, feeling very young and foolish, standing in her bathroom wearing the fanciest, skimpiest set of underwear in her life.  
"They'll make you feel beautiful under this dress, and maybe add to your assets," said the servant, fastening up the corset that somehow created cleavage. Gaping at her reflection in the mirror, Hermione mutely allowed the woman to help her step into the deep plum colored velvet dress. The dress fastened up in the back with a long row of tiny hooks, pulling tight against her body. Its long sleeves clung tight to her like another skin and skimmed her shoulders to fall low around her breasts. If Hermione bent over just a little, she could see her black corset and created- cleavage in the mirror. The low neckline accented the silver collar fastened to her neck, the swirls in the metal matching the earrings the servant put in her ears. The rest of her dress fell to the floor, catching at Hermione's slim curves, somehow making her rather dull figure look attractive. Slipping her feet into black spikes, she allowed herself to be guided to a low stool so the woman could do her hair and makeup.  
"So do you like the dress?" the woman asked conversationally, apparently aware that her charge was feeling a little more timid tonight than normal. That was fine as Hermione welcomed the talk.  
"It makes me look attractive," Hermione said bluntly, not really sure of what to say to this woman. What did women talk about amongst themselves? She had gotten out of practice lately.  
"Well, you are!" laughed the woman, twisting her thick hair in tiny knots, then pinning them close to her scalp with decorative pins that went along with her earrings. The knots were really too tight and pulled uncomfortably, but Hermione didn't say anything. That pain she could deal with, just like the way her underwear was starting to pinch her skin. "Lord Draco picked out the dress, the shoes, and those lacy under-things that got you all flustered," added the woman. "There, all done with your hair."  
"Now for my makeup?" asked Hermione, experimentally feeling her hair with her hands. It looked decent in the mirror with the dying sunlight catching on the metal pins, sparkling prettily.  
"You've got this horrid bruise-do you want me to heal it for you?" the woman asked kindly.  
"No! Don't do that! Just-just cover it up, please?" asked Hermione, trying to calm down. If Draco knew that she had healed her bruise, he would be furious. She had done that once, healed herself with magic, only to earn several more bruises. Apparently, once Draco did something, it stayed that way for everyone to see until it went away naturally. Hermione supposed he liked to admire his handiwork and let everyone in the castle see how, while Voldemort might hold the leash, Draco dispensed the rewards and punishments.  
"If that's what you want," sighed the woman, pulling out a wand. Hermione knew that it had been designed to be inferior to the wands normally sold, to prevent servants from doing anything dangerous. But it was powerful enough to perform a few cosmetic charms. She watched her face transform in the mirror. First, her skin tone evened out and the ugly bruise was covered up. Then her lips became full and matched the color of her dress. The woman raised her wand and Hermione saw her eyelashes grow longer and darker. "Since your eyes are already so beautiful, we'll just make them the focus of your face," said the servant, drawing dark, smudged lines around Hermione's eyes. When she was done with makeup charms, she pulled Hermione's hands toward her. "Now I'll do your nails. Hmm, these need a lot of work. You bit your nails, don't you? Now, it's ok, but you really should try to take better care of them, for your nails can make your hands look pretty or dull."  
But Hermione didn't pay attention to what the woman was saying about her fingernails. She was busy looking at herself. This woman is very good, she thought, to make me look so beautiful. Hermione's usually normal- looking face had been made to look attractive enough with the number of charms applied.  
Then the woman was done and let Hermione look at herself in the full- length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The combination of dress, makeup, and hair made Hermione look like an almost-classic beauty. My face is really too plain and body too thin, but it'll do for tonight, she thought critically examining her reflection, then stopped as her eyes were drawn to her collar. Draco was very clever, picking out this dress to draw attention to her collar, making her status impossible to ignore. Still, the collar was beautiful with its evil swirls and spells. Even though Voldemort was an evil genius, he surrounded himself with aesthetically pleasing things. It made sense that he would want even his pet's collar to be beautiful in the way it let everyone know she was just a mudblood slave.  
I look like a dark witch, I really do. Like how Lestrange looks, dark and brooding, evil. Beautiful on the outside for tonight but always rotten clean to the center. Beauty is only skin deep, she reminded herself, but ugliness goes straight to the bone. Hermione sighed, If Ron saw me now, he would hate me, he'd know me for who I am, a traitor, a horrible evil person. I hate myself. I should just kill myself. But Hermione knew that was an empty threat, knowing that she lacked the courage needed to take her own life. She was too filled with fear to do something like that. What if she mucked it up and Draco found out? Too much fear.  
"You did a good job," came a male voice from the other room. "Leave us." The servant woman bowed and scurried out the door as Draco sauntered over to Hermione, wearing clean-cut, expensive black dress robes, looking like the traditional Death Eater sans mask. "You look good enough to fuck right now," he said, licking his lips as his eyes trailed over her. She shivered, feeling so vulnerable in this strange dress. The mask of makeup she wore only made her more open to his attacks.  
"Come here," Draco commanded, holding out his hand for her. She put hers in his hand meekly, noticing that her nails had been done to match her dress as well. Draco pulled her out into the room and placed her arm over his proffered one. "If I see you so much as bat your eyes at someone else, you'll pay," he purred into her ear as they left the comfort of Hermione's rooms and walked through the castle for the ballroom.  
  
The excited hum of voices reached Hermione as they approached the doors to the ballroom. The huge double-doors were swung wide, held open with sitting serpent statues, letting them see everyone inside, dressed in their finest eveningwear. As Draco led them smoothly across the floor, Hermione looked around her in awe. The ballroom had somehow become a beautiful place. Its stark gothic architecture was made to look less forbidding with the jewel-like lights levitating near the ceiling. Clustered around the piano near the dancing floor and atop every side table were also these jewel lights. Curious, Hermione peered closer at one as they passed. Soft light emanated from something in the center of lightly colored glass gems, cut to look like amethysts or aquamarines. Inside, she was somewhat shocked to notice, were tiny fairies flitting about, clearly trying to get out of their sparkling prison. The light, apparently, was coming from the fairies. The spells used were somewhat complex, but the application was definitely unique. Nodding her head, Hermione was pleased that someone could use a wand with an artistic touch that equaled her. In fact, she was almost positive that those were some variation of the same spell she developed some time ago for containing fwoopers.  
The glittering gems contrasted sharply with the unadorned stone walls, floor, and ceiling, giving the ballroom an elegant atmosphere. The differences went well together, as the cold architecture only made the gem- lights scattered everywhere more inviting. A group of servers stood near the door leading to another room that Hermione presumed had been converted into a kitchen for this evening. They all wore sparkling shirts with either black pants or skirt, thereby matching the décor. Overall, it was quite nice, a change from what Hermione was expecting for the party: grinning skulls and lots of black.  
Belatedly, Hermione realized that Draco was leading her across the ballroom and into a set of side doors. Glancing around, she saw that everyone present was also moving in the same direction. With a sinking heart, she knew that they were going into the Throne Room for a toast and speech before the celebrations began.  
When Voldemort created his new empire, he had decided to do away with the Ministry and rule like a king. No king was complete without a court of people to agree with him and Voldemort was no different. And no court was complete without a throne room to impress and discuss. The Dark Lord held court about once a week, listening to complaints (there were few) and dispensing advice to his subjects. Mostly though, it was an excuse for the Death Eaters to get together to drink and reminisce about the "good old days" when they were battling the Ministry.  
They were nearing the doors, inlaid with a silver serpent design that twisted around so often it made Hermione dizzy if she stared at the snakes. She began to hyperventilate; she didn't want to go in there. Draco must have heard her breathing change, for she felt a sharp pressure on her arm, reminding her that they were in a public place and she must behave. With enormous effort, she slowed her breathing and fought to keep her mind still.  
Inside the Throne Room, she could see Voldemort and Lucius already at the head of the room; the Dark Lord seated in his chair with Lucius standing below him. The throne Voldemort sat in was a part of the wall, twisting out of the stones like a giant basilisk. It symbolized the unmovable will of the Dark Lord.  
Just being in this room made Hermione feel claustrophobic, despite the high ceiling and openness of the room. She supposed it was because even though the gleaming stone floor was clean now, she remembered when it had been covered with blood. Even though the air was filled with voices cheerfully talking, she remembered when it was filled with screaming. She had been present when Voldemort had several prisoners tortured to death in this very chamber. He had watched coldly as other men enjoyed themselves, participating dispassionately sometimes to display his truly inhuman delight in the art of pain. This was before she had been put to work and the Dark Lord felt the best way to break her stubborn resistance was to force her to watch her friends die. She had watched when McGonagall had been tortured in this room, lying bleeding on the head of the snake mosaic design on the floor. Her former professor's screams had been loud at first, but eventually she lost her voice. Yet the silently screaming mouth was even worse. Hermione felt like she was being cut apart with a spoon, she wanted to die. The worst thing was that she knew that Lucius was only torturing McGonagall so viciously in order to break Hermione. The knowledge that her presence made someone suffer so horribly caused Hermione to rock herself back and forth in her room at night for weeks instead of sleeping because she couldn't close her eyes without hearing McGonagall's screams. But that had been years ago. Those times of torture were over as all prisoners worth the attention of the mighty Dark Lord were dead now.  
Beside the throne to the left was a metal cage with a bundle of rags hunched on the floor. Avoiding looking at the cage, Hermione began to pay attention when Voldemort started his speech.  
"My subjects, it is my pleasure to throw for you all a celebratory party on this fine evening. And we shall celebrate my defeat of the fool Dumbledore and his silly rebels. No finer cause for a celebration than this exists." Applause interrupted Voldemort's speech, delivered with a slight tinge of emotion but otherwise very stark. His gift was for magic and violence, not for speaking. He could charm a single person or a small group, yet Lucius was far better at wooing a large crowd, perhaps the reason Voldemort kept the other man around. Waving the applause down, the Dark Lord continued, "But not just to celebrate my deserved victory, but also the four-year anniversary of this kingdom! I have transformed the inane, foolish, trusting Ministry of the past into this strong and mighty kingdom where those who deserve power by blood are given it. Look around at yourselves and feel proud in your accomplishments! Remember where you are and whom you have to thank. And I think we have someone over here to thank most, don't you all?" Voldemort grinned evilly, his ugly face showing mirth at the appreciative roar of the crowd. Motioning with his wand, the cage to his left moved to the front of the throne. Another flick, the door was opened. "Come out, little boy, come out. All these people here want to thank you, don't you?"  
Hermione clenched her jaw, hating Voldemort for doing this, but kept the rest of her body relaxed, knowing she could do nothing, not wanting Draco to see she still cared. The bundle of rags inside the cage shifted, moved, got up and shuffled through the opening, towards evil, thin hands.  
As soon as the ragged shaped reached Voldemort's reach, his hands turned the figure gently around to face to crowd. Cheers and applause echoed loudly throughout the room, hurting Hermione's ears. She allowed herself a scowl, hoping no one would notice. It's not very decent of them to cheer so loudly at a soulless person, she grumbled silently, watching as Voldemort paraded the empty shell of Harry Potter in front of his evil minions.  
When Hermione had learnt that Harry had not died, as she and Ron thought in the prison camps, she was confused until she was shown cruelly what happened. Voldemort stood watching as Harry was led out of his cage before Hermione. He just stared blankly at her, not responding to her tearful cries and questions, not moving a muscle to defend himself when she threw her body on his, pounding her fists on his chest, demanding that he wake up and say something to her. Finally a guard pulled her off Harry and left her collapsed on the floor, sobbing hysterically. Slapping her hard to stop her crying, Voldemort explained in a voice like poison that Harry Potter was indeed standing before her, but this was not really the famous Boy Who Lived. Only his body. Voldemort had ordered Dementors to kiss Harry, sucking out his soul and savoring the brave, brightness that was Harry Potter, leaving behind this shell. It was Voldemort's big joke, that the Boy Who Lived and thus brought about his downfall remained alive, but without his soul. The ultimate revenge, for all those years the Dark Lord spent searching the world for a way to regain his own body.  
Once the truth sunk in through Hermione's shock-numbed brain, she begged for the Dark Lord to just kill Harry, to stop this, to end this joke, to let Harry die completely. She screamed, she cried, she pleaded. In response, Voldemort played with his snakes, watching behind lidded eyes, while Lucius cast the Cruciatus Curse on her and later handed her still- twitching body to Draco. She still had a scar on her lower ribs from that day. Draco was most displeased with her, first forcing her to drink a nerve-enhancing potion that increased any tactile sensation many, many times, then telling her calmly, (for in the beginning he still hurt her systematically, with control, with a defined purpose and goal to achieve during his time with her; now, it was random, chaotic, and much harder to endure), telling her harshly while delicately slicing into her skin with a razor sharp knife that she was just a mudblood. He told her, "You're just dirt. You don't even deserve to live, and you certainly didn't deserve to be born. Yet here you are. The least you could do is learn, if you're clever. No one asks the Dark Lord for anything. You presume to ask him to do something for you, a mudblood? You accept his favor and give all you have in return. You are an embarrassment to me as my responsibility. You shame me. Your behavior reflects upon me. Therefore you will suffer. And you are suffering now, aren't you?" She had been unable to scream a reply because Draco cast a silence charm upon her. She was unable to move because of a full body bind as Draco's knife teased with her skin, pulling up small ribbons of epidermis, cutting away at muscle, exposing bone for Draco to carve his name in his precise hand onto her rib. All this while she watched with dry eyes, for her head and eyes were locked into position.  
  
Now her eyes were locked onto Harry's body in front of the room. Poor soulless Harry. He still wore the clothes he had been wearing the day of the attack, but they were ragged with age now, the robes frayed and faded. And they hung loosely on his body, which probably resembled a skeleton under those robes, for it was too much work to get a soulless body to eat. Hermione begged Draco to let her ask the Dark Lord if she could feed and care for Harry's body, but he just laughed at her pitiful request. Harry's black hair fell past his shoulders and his beard hung rattily down his face. It hurt to look at him, but all the same Hermione felt she owed it to her friend to look upon his body with love instead of hate and amusement like everyone else in the room. It was too bad that only those present in this room knew about Harry's body. The rest of the wizarding population had not been informed about Harry in fear that the news might incite a full-fledged revolt that the Death Eaters were too lazy to deal with or at the very least give them hope. Even the serving staff waited outside the throne room, ignorant of the true fate of the Boy Who Lived. The Death Eaters and their evil friends who knew took great care to keep their little secret safe.  
Obviously Voldemort had grown bored with the same old cheering, for he had guided Harry back into his cage and levitated it back to its place beside the throne. Lucius took his cue now, holding up a hand, saying, "Now my fellow witches and wizards, let us return to the ballroom for our anniversary celebration to begin!" At once, the crowd flowed toward the door leading to the ballroom, eager to begin drinking and dancing.  
She stayed with Draco as they mingled with other people, got their drinks, participated in conversations that Hermione didn't have to pay attention to as long as she was with Draco. Then he noticed Malcolm Baddock and Marcus Flint on the other side of the room. Hermione saw them too and hoped that he would go talk to them without her.  
"Mmm, darling, I'm going to talk to my friends over there. You stay here and chat a bit, all right? Please remember to play nicely because I will hear about it later," he warned before leaving her standing by herself holding a glass of wine. She looked around and sighed; the other people close by that she could talk with were a bunch of empty-headed women that were not truly evil, only spiteful. They were women who shacked up with various Death Eaters, effectively betraying their families who sided against Voldemort, in order to live richly. But Hermione had to do something besides stand in the middle of the ballroom by herself. That would look very bad, as if the pet mudblood had no manners.  
"And so he bought me this!" cried one of the woman, throwing out her right hand to show the other ladies. A large ruby sparkled and glittered in the lights. Hermione frowned; the ring was very ugly and too big, but it was expensive and that was all that mattered. The other women cooed over it, exclaiming how much it must have cost and how well it matched her dress.  
"Well, I'm just waiting for Malcolm to buy me something like that," Parvati Patil was saying, bringing the attention of the gaggle of ladies back to her. "I told him that I've always been partial to sapphires because they bring out my eyes and he agreed, so it should only be a matter of time before I have a ring like that on my hand."  
"Oh, that's marvelous, Parvati! Sapphire you say? I like those yellow ones," said another woman looking wistfully at her own hand which was adorned with pearls.  
"Yellow is quite unusual," said someone else. The other ladies nodded in agreement.  
Hermione, standing on the fringes of their group to pretend she belonged, rolled her eyes and began to look for a waiter with something stronger than wine. Her eyes roamed the ballroom, absently noting who was here and who wasn't, thereby determining who was still in favor with the Dark Lord. Parvati's loud voice kept intruding on Hermione's thoughts. She once again thought that if she ever worked up the nerve to escape, she would be sure to kill Parvati one her way to India (the place Hermione decided to run away to in hopes of finding a friendly Indian shaman to hide her). Parvati was a traitor, worse than Hermione, for she turned her back on her family and her Gryffindor heritage for the privilege of being on Malcolm Braddock's arm and wearing his blood money.  
Stupid, despicable woman. To think I shared a dorm room with her for all those years. Should have let loose a band of Cornish pixies on her while I had the chance. Oh, I need a drink if I'm going to have to deal with this all night. Maybe that waiter over there will have- Hermione stopped thinking, stopped breathing. She tightened her grip on her glass, vaguely thinking that if she dropped it Draco would be mad. The waitress politely handing out drinks to a trio of elderly wizards at a table had vibrant red hair spilling down her back in loose curls. Hermione stared at the waitress, wondering if, hoping it wasn't, wishing it was-and then the waitress turned to go back to the kitchen and Hermione found herself staring into Ginny Weasley's freckled face. Gaping unabashedly at Ginny's once-familiar face, Hermione was shocked to see that Ginny had become a woman, with flirty eyes and lips to match the glittering halter-top she wore with short tap pants and fishnets. She watched as the red-head waitress moved her way through the crowd, confident that she changed enough during the last four years, sure that she looked enough like a dark witch that Ginny would not recognize her. But Hermione couldn't decide if she wanted to be recognized or not.  
Whatever her desire was, it became irrelevant when Ginny swung her gaze around the room, doubtlessly looking for empty glasses to fill, and met Hermione's eyes. Ginny's face showed startled recognition that was quickly smothered as a disinterested mask fell into place. Still numb from seeing Ginny, Hermione could only watch behind half-lidded eyes, sipping at her drink, as Ginny made her way through the ballroom and into the kitchen.  
  
Glancing around, Hermione determined that Draco had his back to her, Lucius was busy flirting with a very voluptuous woman, and Voldemort sat playing with Nagini. No one was paying any attention to her, now that those women drifted over to a table to talk. Hermione placed her now-empty glass on a passing waiter's tray and carefully walked over to the kitchen door. She passed an overly amorous couple on one of the elegant couches strategically around the perimeter of the ballroom and wished such behavior wasn't permitted at these parties Then she was opening the door and after a look behind to be sure Draco wasn't looking for her, Hermione strode into the kitchen, already looking for the headwaiter. He was a small, timid man who had worked in the castle for years. Hermione knew he would be easy to bully to get what she wanted.  
"Headwaiter! I must speak with you!" Hermione said as bossily as possible, putting a haughty look on her features. The man looked at her with fear and scurried over in front of her.  
"What is it, my lady? Is the food not perfect? Perhaps you need a drink? Please tell me the problem so I can fix it," the man pleaded with her, not looking into her face, but wringing his hands and staring at the floor.  
Hermione smiled, pleased that she could still terrify the servants, and said, "One of your waitresses looked out of uniform. Really, you should check them to make sure they look perfect. I don't want to be responsible for someone not matching with my Lord Malfoy's decorations for this evening."  
"Of course not, my lady, I will see to her immediately," began the man, but Hermione held out an imperious hand.  
"No, no, that won't do at all. I don't think you can be harsh enough with the girl. I wish to speak with her myself out in the hallway," she said, tossing her hair back and for once thoroughly appreciating her dark witch reputation.  
"Ah, which one would you like to speak to then?"  
"That one," said Hermione, indicating Ginny with her pointed finger, "with the ghastly red hair. I want to speak with her in the hallway, privately," she said in a low voice. "If I find out someone is listening, it will be your head Nagini will play with tomorrow for breakfast."  
The headwaiter gulped and waded his way through the chaotic kitchen to grab hold of Ginny and push her out into the hallway. Hermione followed, glaring at everyone else in the kitchen. She didn't look to closely at any other waiters, but she had the vague feeling of familiarity with some of them. Shaking it off, Hermione walked through the door held open by the headwaiter. Whirling around to fix him with one last glare, she warned, "Remember my words or you'll pay later."  
Standing nervously down the dark hallway, lined with wall sconces for torches, Ginny was waiting.  
Hermione strode over to Ginny. "It's me, Ginny, Hermione! And it's you!" she gasped, stretching out her hands to touch Ginny, to make sure she was real, thinking that this was the first time she had seen Ginny since that day in the prison camp.  
Keeping herself away from Hermione's hands, Ginny said, "Who are you?"  
"I'm Hermione Granger, don't-don't you recognize me?" said Hermione, faltering, feeling her stomach sink to her feet.  
"Hermione Granger died four years ago in one of your prison camps, my lady," Ginny said in a shaky voice. "I don't know who you are, but it's impossible for you to be Hermione Granger, despite the slight resemblance. So if you could tell me what is wrong with my uniform so I can continue with my duties?"  
"You mean-you don't believe me? You don't believe that I'm Hermione? That I'm me?" Hermione whispered.  
Ginny responded angrily now, "You can't be Hermione. She was my friend. She was brave and honorable, always knowing the right and moral thing to do. You-you're one of the Death Eaters or one of their women. I don't know you. But I wish you would stop disrespecting my friend's memory and quit pretending to be someone too noble for you to kiss her shoes!"  
Ginny's disbelief stung. Hermione had imagined this scene before in her mind sometimes, not lately, but it had never gone this badly. In her fantasies, Ginny or Ron welcomed her with open arms and helped her escape. But those dreams were always too childish anyway. "No, no! Listen to me, Virginia Weasley," she snapped, "Hermione Granger didn't die at the prison camp! I'm right here. You said it yourself, I look like the person you remember. It's still me underneath all this dark finery. Still Hermione." Realizing that the only way she could get Ginny to trust her was to keep talking and hope that some of it would make sense, Hermione said, "Four years ago, you and Ron saw me dragged away to be executed. But you didn't actually see it happen. Just before Draco ended my life forever, Lucius stopped him. You see, my master wanted to keep me alive as his special pet, his clever mudblood slave. You never knew I've really been alive all this time because I'm not allowed to leave this castle by myself and most Death Eaters refer to me as the 'mudblood slave' because it's funny. See the collar?" Her hands lifted to caress the familiar metal collar. "My master," she continued, unable to refer to Voldemort as anything other than "my master" aloud after several sessions of painful conditioning, "can control me through this, using his magic to punish me if I do something to displease him. That way I'm not under the Imperius curse."  
"How can I be sure you're you and not really under Imperio or a polyjuiced person trying to trick me?" said Ginny, looking a little more trusting but still several inches away from Hermione.  
"You know that I can throw off the Imperius curse easily," said Hermione, "That's why I have this lovely collar. Beautiful, isn't it?" Ginny nodded her eyes following the swirls of power on the metal. "My master constructed it specifically for me. The metal is fused into my bones. It can never come off. I am Hermione Granger, Ginny, you have to believe me. No one else knows about that day at the Burrow when we drank the twins' secret stash of Firewhisky and went swimming naked in the river. No one else knows how many mornings I redid Ron and Harry's homework. Who else knows how much I despise Quidditch but went to all their games just to make sure they didn't get hurt? Who knows that I cried my eyes out the night I found out I was Head Girl? You knows why Harry gave you a puffskien that last Christmas? And how many shots did you put into the eggnog that night anyway?" Hermione brought up details of their past lives that she hoped would convince Ginny to trust her. Then, opening her mouth and hesitating, she said, "You must hate me for how this looks, for how this is."  
Staring at her with that strange, grown-up face, Ginny said, "Tell me how it is."  
"Four years ago," began Hermione, then chuckled, "How ironic, how perfect that tonight is the anniversary for everything. Four years ago, I was about to be executed by Draco and then I became a slave. I was forced to help the Death Eaters rebuild Diagon Alley, to fortify this castle, to construct special spells for my master.for all my efforts I am highly regarded. I am one of the most powerful people in this castle right now, yet I am still hindered by seen and unseen fetters to stop me from displeasing my master." Hermione sighed, feeling very weary suddenly. She noticed the uncomprehending look on Ginny's face. Hermione knew Ginny couldn't possibly understand why she willingly took orders from the most evil wizard alive without hearing the entire story with the gruesome details that there wasn't time for at this moment. That realization made Hermione feel so much older than the one year's difference between her and Ginny.  
But Ginny must have seen some of the weariness and despair in Hermione's eyes, for the red-haired waitress held out a hand. Hermione stared at it uncomprehendingly, not sure what to do with a hand offered in friendship until Ginny just stepped forward and hugged Hermione firmly. "Oh, Hermione, we were so sure you were dead, and now you're alive, this is wonderful, no matter the situation, you're alive! Just wait till Ron finds out!"  
"Ron?" asked Hermione, pulling away. "Ron's here?"  
"Of course, everyone at 'The Last Chance' was hired to work tonight." Ginny gave Hermione an odd look, saying, "He's probably on the ballroom. I can go get him.if you want to meet him?"  
"Yes." The chance to see Ron-it seemed like a dream, like perhaps this nightmare of a night could have something good in it-she felt like singing at the mere thought of seeing Ron again. "Bring him to this hallway, I'll wait out here."  
Ginny nodded and moved away to the kitchen door. Hermione called after her, "Hurry! I don't have much time before anyone notices I'm gone."  
Then she was gone and Hermione was left alone in the hallway with her thoughts. Ron, Ron, Ron, still alive and well, I'm going to see him, she thought, excited at the idea of seeing her best friend again (well, the one still with his soul, she corrected bitterly), then grew worried. He'll take one look at me and say that I'm not the same person that was his friend, that I'm a traitor. He'll accuse me just like Dean.. Just look at me, she thought, glancing down at her body, seeing her corset peaking out from her dress, noting the color and style were both things that she never would have touched in the days before for they were something that Ron would have declared fit for a "scarlet woman." And here she was, made up to look like a beautiful, powerful evil witch. The kind that belonged on Draco's arm, not consorting with disgraced wizards. I don't deserve this, she reminded herself, I am evil, I am traitorous, I am horrible, I am a-a- scarlet woman as Ron would have said. He'll hate me, I know he will. Hermione felt the urge to flee back into the ballroom, to find Draco and cling to his arm for the rest of the evening for at least there she knew what to expect. Before she could make up her mind though, the door slipped open and out walked Ginny and Ron.  
"Hermione?" said Ron in a hoarse voice. His face looked white underneath his spiky red hair. She didn't remember it looking so spiked, nor did she remember the grim set of his chin, but he was still Ron, her Ron, the person she quarreled with so many times and corrected homework for, the person she loved in the deepest corner of her heart. And he was standing before her looking completely dumbstruck, like he had just seen a ghost. And perhaps he has, she thought wryly.  
"It's me," Hermione said, spreading her hands wide, feeling her chin begin to wobble as she held back a sudden sob that threatened to consume her. "If you can see me underneath all this-this darkness that I hide beneath."  
"You-you're alive, Ginny told me, but I didn't, I couldn't believe her until I saw you," Ron was saying as he closed the distance between them much too rapidly for Hermione. She held her breath as she was caught up in Ron's long arms, feeling too shocked to hug him back.  
"You don't want any proof that I'm who I say I am?" whispered Hermione.  
"I trust Ginny, who trusts you, and that's good enough for me," whispered Ron back. Hermione couldn't hold back her sobs anymore. She clung to Ron, feeling tears fall from her eyes as she tried to look at him. He was so much taller than Draco, with longer arms and a kinder feel to him. Bending her face back into Ron's chest, she felt her heart hurt with the sudden realization of missing someone she hadn't known she needed.  
"What are you doing here? Just serving drinks?" asked Hermione, holding him out at arm's length.  
Ron looked at Ginny, who nodded slowly, then he turned back to Hermione. "We're part of a small group of people who dislike the present government," he whispered. "And we thought that tonight could be a chance to let them know how much we hate them."  
"You mean?" Ron nodded. She felt something stir within, thinking about what Ron hadn't said. And she knew from castle gossip that there was a small Resistance group that was completely worthless and unable to do anything against the Death Eaters, mostly due to precautions I recommended, she remembered, but I won't tell Ron that right now, not when he hasn't decided to hate me. "Let me help you, tell me your plan. I can take down wards for you, tell you were to go to do the most damage, how to avoid Death Eaters." Both Ron and Ginny looked apprehensive now at sharing their secret plans. Hermione felt the same thing inside her breast that had stirred when Ron hinted at their plan curl up and prepare to die now. Desperately, she said, "You have to believe me! I can help you! Let me help you, please. I've been inside this castle for four years, serving my master, hating myself, and-"  
"Wait a minute. Your master?" said Ron. "You mean Voldemort, don't you. You've been serving Voldemort?"  
When Hermione heard the hatred in Ron's voice, she cringed, feeling that all hope was lost, that she blew her chance to do something with her life. "Yes," she said, hugging her arms to her body, thinking that she would endure all the pain from the last four years again rather than have Ron think she betrayed them willingly. "But you don't understand what has happened. Do you see this collar?" said Hermione, pulling her hand up to fasten on the metal. "My master controls me with it, but not like the Imperius curse. It's far more brutal than that. If I do something to upset him, he can hurt me through it. If he wants to know where I am, he can tell through this. I can't do certain spells because of magical restrictions placed on this collar. And besides, I've learned my lesson well. It's easier to obey than to resist."  
"You mean you gave up?" said Ron. Hermione felt his eyes look at her now without the shock of seeing his best friend. She knew he was thinking that she looked like she fit perfectly in with everyone in the ballroom.  
"If you've seen what I've seen, been hurt like I have, then you would have given up too." Turning away from Ron and Ginny, Hermione thought of a way to convince them of what was inside her heart. She grew angry with them. How dare they not believe me? They don't know what's happened to me. They weren't there when McGonagall was killed to break me. They weren't there to see Harry. They haven't had to deal with Draco everyday. They don't understand. Hermione turned back to them, terrible anger flashing in her eyes now. She marched over to Ron, drawing up her dangerous aura that terrified castle servants so well, turning it fully on Ron. "If you won't trust me despite appearances, then you're not my best friend, Ronald Weasley. I've been living a dead life. I've been living within hell. And now you've offered me the slimmest chance to live again and to do something good, but you won't accept my help because I gave up fighting? How dare you refuse me! You don't know what I can do now. You two have no idea of the terrible things I'm capable of. If not for this," she hissed, tearing at her collar, "I would be able to duel with my master on equal ground. I am possibly the second most powerful magical person in this castle and you don't want my help? That's not very logical of you." Hermione stood glaring at them in fury, then anger turned to shock as Ron began to twitch with laughter. "What's so funny?"  
"You are!" he gasped, grabbing her arm for a hug. Hermione stiffly let herself be held by Ron, still shaking with laughter. "You're Hermione all right. Only my Hermione would have a row with me moments after our first meeting in four years."  
Hermione smiled in spite of herself. "You're right," she said.  
"Of course I am. Isn't that what we decided at the end of all those fights anyway?" said Ron slyly.  
"I don't remember it quite like that," she said, pulling away and wiping at her eyes with care, trying not to smudge her makeup.  
His face growing still again, Ron said seriously, "I didn't know you had to change so much inside. Of course we'll trust you. I always have. Ginny," he said over his shoulder, "Arrange a small meeting later so we can talk with Hermione about tonight, ok?" Ginny retreated, presumably to obey Ron's request, but Hermione did not notice. All she was aware of was the meaning behind what Ron had said: he trusted her despite appearances and maybe even cared for her.  
The possibility that Ron cared for her only brought the memory of Draco back to Hermione's mind. "I've got to get back to the party," she said, staring toward the door. "Someone will notice I'm gone."  
".and that wouldn't be good," finished Ron. "You're right. We don't need to arouse suspicion now. Come back to the kitchen in half an hour, ok?"  
"Ok."  
They walked back into the kitchen just as a servant Hermione recognized from the castle entered from the ballroom. "Lady Hermione, Lord Malfoy requests your presence at once."  
At once, Hermione felt Draco's iron hand on her soul. But she remained confidant, snapping at the servant, "What are you still waiting here for? Hurry back and tell him I'm almost through disciplining a daft server in the kitchens!" The servant winced and left the kitchen.  
Ron croaked, "Lord Malfoy?"  
In response to the horrible look on Ron's face, Hermione said, "I'm Draco's personal toy in addition to being my master's pet mudblood witch. He tends to keep a very tight hold on me." Bitterness surged through her veins, tasting like bile in her mouth. The last thing she wanted was Ron to know what Draco did to her.  
Ron grabbed her arm as Hermione tried to leave, asking, "What do you mean?"  
Hermione raised her other hand to touch her cheek, feeling the bruise hidden under her makeup charms. Ron's hand followed hers, pressing against her skin, causing Hermione to wince. His brown eyes crinkled at her, reminding her once again how much she had missed this man who used to be her best friend. It had been a long time since anyone was concerned for her well-being, she was touched by Ron's concern, by his unselfishness that was so different from the selfish desires around her. Hermione said bitterly, "I'm good for a beating and a fuck," then ran out to the ballroom as fast as she could, hoping Draco wasn't furious with her already. 


	4. Part IV

Part IV: All Hell Breaks Loose  
  
Immediately after the conclusion of part III.  
  
Draco turned back to his conversation with Terence Higgs. The other man had been going on about some new broomstick for Quidditch, telling Draco all about the little details of making broomsticks that bored everyone else to tears. Quidditch didn't interest Draco these days. He had never liked the sport to begin with and now that his rivals were taken care of, there was no need to play. But still, he tried to pretend to care for Terence's sake. It was hard, though, to talk about Quidditch when he really wanted to go find Hermione and do things to her that weren't quite appropriate in the ballroom, despite the abundance of sofas lining the shadowed walls.  
The servant he had sent to find his slave was taking too long, but Draco mentally told himself to be patient. Hermione would turn up, apologetic as usual, and Draco would deal with her.  
Terence was saying, "This new broom, even though it's still being tested, will begin production easily in two months."  
"Who are the test flyers?" Trying to be interested, ask questions.  
  
My Hermione. Mine mine mine. But where is she?  
"Oh, just a few kids, sons of some officials looking for joy rides."  
"And what happens if something unfortunate happens to one of them?"  
"Nothing, at least to us. They signed a contract, fully accepting all dangers that might befall them."  
Dangers, so many of them in life. Don't you agree, Hermione? Dangers that might hurt you soon if you don't show up.  
"I see. So how are the tests going?"  
"Quite well. It seems that there are some flight stability problems from increasing the speed."  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes. Perhaps your darling slave could take a look at the problem for us? It would save the expenses of hiring a special consultant and I trust her work enough to let her see the spell work."  
Dare to presume, don't you Terence? Ask me to share my slave? Never. I'd kill you first. But you can borrow.  
"We'll come over later this week."  
"That's fine. And you'll stay for dinner?"  
Dinner would be lovely, a night out, maybe go to "The Last Chance," tease her, play with her, break her, make her even more mine. Mine mine mine, and oh! There she is.  
"Of course, my friend." Draco clapped the other man on the shoulder, then indicating Hermione, said, "It seems that my attention is needed elsewhere. Enjoy the evening!"  
Hermione had entered the ballroom, looking around confused. She's trying to find me, Draco thought, feeling a rush of pride looking at her. Even though most of the witches present tonight were lovelier than his Hermione, she had a presence, an aura of power that these pretty, shapely figures lacked. And she wore that sleek collar that marked her as his. Well, almost mine. Mostly mine. Almost all mine. Draco smiled as he weaved his way through dancing couples to reach Hermione.  
She looked pale, but he dismissed that due to the excitement of the evening. "Darling, I was looking for you. I though I told you not to wander off."  
"I-there was a server who was most rude to me," said Hermione as Draco pulled her onto the dance floor. She moved unresisting, reaching up a white hand into his as they began to dance to the music. Draco curled an arm around her waist, feeling her slim curves under his fingers.  
"And did you take care of that server?" he asked, breathing into her hair. Someone knotted it up most delicately, with tiny spirals of metal holding hair up on her scalp. The scent of her skin raced through his mind. He decided to have fun later tonight. Her hair in particular, he longed to pull out her curls slowly, tangling his fingers in this thick browness, so different from his own hair.  
"Yes." Her voice grew soft, almost to a whisper, near his mouth. "I apologize for being away so long, it seemed like a good idea to inspect the rest of the servers present. Was I wrong?"  
She was so thoughtful, trying so hard to do the right thing by him. It was marvelous, how much she had changed. How much I changed her. "That's fine, but I do wish you had told me where you went."  
"You missed me?" she asked, Draco noting how her eyes became large. With fear? Of me? Of course. I can still frighten her with words. How delicious.  
"I thought you'd gone off with Crabbe or Goyle," he teased into her ear, then swirled his tongue around her earlobe and neck, feeling how she stiffened. "What's wrong, my dear?"  
"What are you doing?" she asked in a strangled voice. Probably thinks I'm going fuck her, right in the middle of the floor, what a naughty slave of mine.  
"Whatever I want to, slave, because-?" he said, wrapping his arms around her possessively, enjoying her warmth pressed up against him.  
"I'm yours." A whisper, head bowed meekly into his chest.  
"Yes," he hissed. Then he dropped his hands from his death grip on Hermione's body and grabbing her hand, walked over to the nearest wall. Pushing her up against the cold stone, he kissed her neck roughly, tasting her sweet skin, smelling a new perfume on it that excited him.  
"There are people watching," she gasped, trying to push him away halfheartedly.  
He didn't care. There were plenty of other couples to watch, if one wanted to, hidden away in the shadows that clung to the walls, entertaining each other on low sofas blending in with the dark, doing all sorts of dirty things. Things he wanted to do but didn't have time. This party was too important politically for him to have fun with Hermione. But he needed to let her know that she displeased him by making him worry when he disappeared like that without telling him. "You shouldn't leave me like that again," he said, pushing her hands to her sides, holding them pinned there. Draco met her eyes. She definitely looked frightened now. "You know better than to anger me." A warning, for now. Depends on how she answers.  
"I didn't-I'm sorry, it was only for a few minutes, please."  
"Don't finish that statement," he said, closing her mouth with his, kissing her with enough force to leave bruises for the next day. Wrong answer, lovely Hermione, dear me, that's the wrong answer, I suppose I'll just have to punish you later, won't I? Pulling back, he enjoyed the sight of her reddened lips as he used one hand to pin hers between their bellies. "You should listen to me." Draco's other hand caught the back of her head and pulled it back, lifting her chin up and baring her neck. Lovely smooth neck, whiteness all the way into her dress, marred only by her collar. He studied the skin, wondering where the perfect spot was, then found it. A few inches above the collar, just off-center, visible to everyone. Baring his teeth, Draco leaned his mouth close to Hermione's neck, biting the skin, nibbling cruelly in the same spot, tasting how her skin changed and bruised, reveling in the metallic taste of her blood. She stiffened against him, her hands protesting weakly, a small whimper of pain, then he felt the weight of her body sag into his. She's given up, he thought triumphantly.  
"I win," he said as he stepped back from her after a few more minutes of hurting her. She rubbed her wrists. The inflamed spot on her neck pleased him. Mine mine mine. All mine and everyone knows it. Including her. "I'll be rejoining the party. If you want to return to your rooms, feel free. Or in fact," he paused, getting an idea. "When you're tired of this, come and tell me, then go to my room. I've got a new bathtub that I think you'll like." He leered at her, bending his head to taste the tops of her breasts, then strode back into the crowd, commending himself on his choice of lingerie. Quite a nice fit. Maybe I'll dress her up more often.  
  
Balancing an overfull tray of drinks, Ron moved through the fringes of the ballroom. The gin and tonic went to the elder witch wearing a low-cut dress that horrified Ron. A Firewhiskey to the bored-looking man. Sherry for the dignified gentleman Ron suspected was gay.  
While he served drinks, he gazed around the room, trying to find Hermione. He supposed she'd run off to Malfoy. Draco? That amazed him. First, that Malfoy hadn't killed Hermione outright, seeing as he hated her just as much as him or Harry. Second, that apparently Malfoy had some sort of hold over Hermione. When she had heard the servant in the kitchen, Ron saw her face go white. Malfoy scares her, Ron thought, afraid to imagine why.  
Then he spotted them, crushed together against the wall, half-hidden in the shadows. Ron's pulse sped up, but he tried to stay calm. Serve your drinks, he ordered himself. Don't do something stupid now or you'll just ruin everything. But he couldn't help looking with veiled horror as Malfoy bit Hermione's neck. She trembled under his grasp, then relaxed. Ron watched as the blond man moved away and tried to guess at his words to Hermione. Then he left, leaving Hermione to gather herself up shakily and sink into an unoccupied sofa by a door.  
Swiftly making up his mind, Ron continued to collect empty glasses as he returned to the kitchen. A glance at the clock told him that there was a little more than thirty minutes before they had arranged to meet Hermione and begin their mission. Setting his tray down, Ron slipped out the side door into the hallway. He walked down the corridor, guessing at the correct door, and opened it to find himself beside Hermione.  
"Hey," he called softly. "Can I join you?"  
Her startled face turned up. "Ron? No, you really shouldn't, someone might see-"  
"It's very dark over here," he pointed out. She shook her head, almost frantic. She must be frightened, he realized, saying, "Why don't you come talk to me out here then?" He saw her nod twice and get up. Holding the door open for her, Ron shut it after them then turned to find Hermione staring at the floor with teary eyes.  
Hesitating, not wanting to upset Hermione, but filled with a burning need to know how much he needed to kill Malfoy, Ron said, "What did he do to you?"  
Hermione looked up too quickly, saying in a high voice, "Nothing. Why?"  
"That's not true, I saw you two." Ron could see some remains of her stubbornness asset itself in Hermione's face as she dabbed at her eyes. Grimly taking her hands, he said, "Let me see."  
She met his eyes for a moment. Ron thought about her brown eyes and wondered what she'd seen to change into this woman who obeyed Draco Malfoy. Then she tilted her head back and led him hand to the angry red mark on her neck. "This is it. It doesn't hurt much, outside. It's more inside me that he hurts."  
"Is this normal?" asked Ron, growing horrified at the thought of what he didn't know about Hermione.  
"I'm used to it. I expected worse from the bastard, to tell the truth." Hermione turned away to curse into the empty air. Another shock for Ron to hear his old friend swear at Malfoy with language that would have made her teenage self blush red for a week.  
"That's different from the Hermione I knew," said Ron, venturing closer to her.  
He heard her bitter laugh. "I know. I keep thinking that I'll do something and you'll change your mind and hate me."  
"Why does he hurt you?" Ron said, returning to his original thought.  
"Why else? If someone didn't terrorize me, what do you think would keep me under control? This collar only deals out physical pain, but Draco's gotten inside my mind, which is more effective, don't you think?" The bitter voice Hermione was using made Ron wonder again about her past. He felt so sad that events turned out this way and upset that he was so powerless to change the past.  
"I'm sorry this happened."  
"It's not your fault. I'm just grateful you're even talking to me."  
"What do you mean?"  
Hermione shook her head, saying, "Don't you know? I thought you'd take one look at me and run the other way, or at least curse me for being a traitor. For being a dark witch. For being evil. You know Dean Thomas did that? Screamed at me until he died."  
Ron sighed, feeling old. It hurt to hear about dead friends and it hurt to see Hermione, once so strong, now trying not to cry. "Here," he said, holding out his arms. "It's ok. Give me a hug until we have to meet up with everyone else." Hermione sniffled and reluctantly moved next to his chest. Ron hugged her tightly, hoping to give her some of the comfort she had been denied for four years.  
  
"No, I disagree. That's not the right thought. What needs to be done is plain. We have to monopolize the market on Graphorn skins, then once we do that, we can control who can afford to do business with us. That way we can be sure-" Draco stopped talking to Ludo Bagman, Dolores Faretchy, and Seymour Tides, all witches and wizards with heavy ties to the wizarding trading market, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head slightly, seeing Hermione standing beside him. Pleased at seeing her appear at his side so prettily, he offered her his arm, which she took immediately. Draco asked her, "We were just talking about the problem of the Graphorn market. What do you think should be done?"  
Hermione paused, thinking, then addressed them. "If your goal is to prevent certain wizards or, if I may be so bold to presume at political goals, certain groups of wizards that do not like the present form of government from obtaining Graphorn skin legally for its protective properties, then it would be feasible to purchase every Graphorn provider allowing you control of market for the skins. After that is accomplished, then you would be sure of who you are selling to, for you would be the only company capable of legally selling Graphorn skins. Of course, there is the problem of illegal transactions, but every time someone shows up with said skin without proof of purchase, then you would have a victim. Eventually the problem would be solved."  
"Isn't she wonderful?" laughed Draco. "I can tell that you understood about half of that, but don't worry, Ludo, we'll just blame the wine, hmm?" Ludo laughed heartily with the others, not quite getting the joke, but enjoying it all the same. Draco was glad Hermione came along to relieve him from these bores. It was not very nice of his father to dump these wizards on him, but when they were drunk it was so much easier to impress them. And that's why I have her. So clever and pretty. Almost too clever. If she wasn't mine, I'd have her killed as a threat. But I don't need to worry about that.  
"Do you just enjoy my company, or did you have another purpose in coming over here?" asked Draco, leading Hermione onto the dance floor. He swayed with her, listening to her reply with closed eyes.  
"I'm getting tired of this party and was wondering if I could leave."  
"Tired already? But the fun's barely begun, we've still got the dancers and entertainers in ten minutes, then the band will arrive." He spoke almost drunkenly, slowly through a haze of mixed pleasure and pride at his slave. So clever. Too bad I can't take her to all my meetings. Then my work would be much easier, with her to confuse those fools with her words and me to come in for the kill. I'll have to speak to Father about that. Draco realized Hermione had said something a while ago, but they had kept dancing and he couldn't remember what it was. "Did you say something?"  
"My feet ache from these shoes."  
Draco looked at her face to see a pout on her still-red lips. "You don't like the shoes I picked out for you?"  
"I don't wear shoes like this all the time," she said, allowing him to pull her closer, letting his hands guide her head to lean on his shoulder.  
"Poor darling. I happen to like them on you. The way you look tonight is most striking." He couldn't help picturing his Hermione in those shoes with only her lingerie on. He licked his lips, advising once again patience.  
"You like it?"  
"Very." He grinned, a feral gleam in his eye as he was already planning the rest of the evening when he left the party. Those shoes and that dress. His new bathtub. And a few ideas that could be made interesting with her lingerie. Later though, don't want her to be too tired, do we? "But if you're tired, then why don't you go back to my rooms and lie down? Take a nap and you'll feel better, hmm?"  
"Thank you," she said, starting to walk away. Suddenly, Draco grabbed her face and kissed her very gently, drinking her in like a fine wine, noting the way her eyes flew open and then fluttered closed, how her body stiffened then relaxed against his, how her hands, searching for something to do, found their way around his neck. He marveled in how responsive she was to his actions. She had learned well, and except for that initial flinch, obeyed his commands without question. But there was plenty of time to fix that silly flinch of hers so she would be smooth and lovely always. Always, he thought, letting her walk away.  
  
Hermione walked out of the ballroom, feeling butterflies in her stomach. Her lips still tingled from the very nice kiss Draco gave her, making her ache with a desire to have him stop hurting her. He shouldn't tease me like that. I'll obey him anyway, with only the threat of pain.but if he'd only do things like that to me instead of hit me.It could be nice.but that's not his style, she thought bitterly. Then she shrugged off her silly desires. She had to worry about something much bigger now. Like how to work with Ron's resistance movement and what targets to tell them to go after. And if she was going to see another morning again.  
Rounding the corner, Hermione saw a group of servers, Resistance members, she corrected mentally, standing casually in the shadows, smoking and chatting as if on break. Ginny walked to meet her, telling her that everyone knew about her already while Ron said, "Ok, listen up." Then he faced Hermione. "We're already divided into groups. George and Angelina, Neville and Cho, Oliver and Penny, Michael and Ginny. I was with Fred."  
"But I need someone to go with me," interrupted Hermione.  
Ron nodded. Then Fred would go alone. Hermione met their eyes, seeing grim determination and not the distrust she'd expected. Maybe if they survived, these people would welcome her? But this is most likely a suicide mission, she thought. "And now I'll let Hermione talk," said Ron.  
Clearing her throat, Hermione spoke up, "Despite the control collar I wear, I am one of the most powerful witches in this castle. I can control most of the protective wards set up in various locations, giving you access to places to destroy. Also, I know this castle inside and out, so I can tell you all were to go to do the most damage. You all have your wands?"  
"Bet your galleons we do," muttered Oliver. "And don't even ask how we got them in here, because I don't want to talk about it." Penny's nervous giggles were smothered when Oliver glared at her.  
"Ok, Oliver and Penny, you can go to the castle's foundations and work on weakening those. If you use a combination of transfiguration spells and weather spells, I think you'll have the most luck." The two approached when she beckoned, watching as she drew in the air with her wand, grabbed from the middle of her corset. "Here's the fastest way to get there, watch out for this pillar, that's where the ward begins. Wait there until the humming stops, then go in and get to work." The designs she's drawn in the air settled onto a piece of parchment, which she handed to Penny. "Leave now, I don't know how much time you'll have once the Death Eaters figure out what's happening. And if you're caught, burn this parchment." Oliver nodded and they ran out of the hallway, not worried about the noises their feet made on stone since the party was still going full swing.  
"George and Angelina?" Hermione said, looking at them.  
"We're going to hang out here, at the ballroom. Sure, the acrobats they've hired will be entertaining, but I think we can do better," said Angelina, her eyes laughing even though her body was tense. George just nodded his agreement with her.  
"Ok," said Hermione. "I hope you know what you're doing."  
George spoke up, saying, "We do. Most of them have had too many drinks to be a threat."  
"But the ones you need to worry about are too smart to get drunk tonight," said Hermione. "Hopefully they'll leave right away to organize an attack against us, making it clear for you two to work."  
"How much resistance do you think we'll get?" asked Neville. Hermione looked at him, then gaped. He had changed so much. Taller and older, still slightly round-faced, but so much more grown-up than the Neville she remembered. He looked like the kind of person she would have been glad to know.  
"Immediately. V-vo-v-, my master will sense that the wards have been released, but it will take him and Lucius some time to find all of you. I'm going to be taking all the wards down, but as there are only a few of us, they won't know where to go first. Eventually, Lucius will get the guards together and hunt you all down, but if we're lucky that will take some time. Maybe by then you'll get out of the castle." But she doubted they would make it that far. Lucius was too cunning. He planned for everything and would no doubt have a full squad of guards ready for anything.  
"And once we get out?" ventured Cho.  
"Snag a broomstick if you can, or grab one of the thestrals from a carriage. I don't know how to help you escape, I've only been outside this castle eleven times in the last four years!" snapped Hermione. She was getting anxious now. If she didn't finish telling them where to go, she might not have enough time to get the wards down before someone noticed a chunk of the serving staff was gone. And being anxious made her short tempered, but right now being polite did not matter.  
"And you two," she continued, stabbing a finger at Neville and Cho, "can go to the Dungeons and interrupt several ongoing projects. Set free any prisoners. Make things very chaotic." She handed them another parchment that Neville took meekly. As they turned to leave, Hermione added, "Don't worry too much if most of the prisoners are insane. Just let them out and tell them to start breaking things. And you might see a few people you know, but please ignore them because I can promise you they're beyond any hope of salvation." Her last remark caused both Neville and Cho to turn pale, but they nodded and left.  
This leaves Ginny, Michael, and Fred, she thought, searching her mind for places for them to go. "Fred, head down to this area. You'll find an extensive storage area. Destroy as much as you can. Go, quickly." He grabbed the parchment she held out and fled the hallway.  
Then she began to speak rapidly to Ginny and Michael. "Why don't you go to the library. I know it sounds silly, but there are so many valuable spells written only in those books. If they were ruined, it would be a terrible loss to the Dark Arts. And you'll probably have to get creative with spells as there are several protective spells on individual books that I can't take down."  
"We're pretty imaginative," Michael said wryly as he and Ginny left.  
  
Handing the last parchment, a map to her rooms, to Ron, she said, "Now I've got to take down the wards. If I collapse, just make sure I don't hit my head." She smiled at him, hoping it looked brave, then closed her eyes. If she thought about it, she could see the layers of spells holding the castle together. The wards glowed with a dark light, almost like the absence of light. The darkness of their appearance was due to the way they were constructed, relying on pain to keep people away instead of suggestive spells like the ones the old Ministry used. Steeling herself for what would happen within the next five minutes, Hermione took a firm hold of the wards in her mind and shut them off, feeling power surge through her mind and out into the castle. She felt proud that she managed to take them all down at once, then felt Ron's hands holding her upright as her legs turned to goo.  
"Are you alright?" Through a thick fog she heard Ron ask her a question, but she couldn't understand it. I wonder if that was a little more than I should have done, she thought as she tried to get control of her mouth.  
"I just need to get to my rooms," she said, taking care not to slur the words. "That was harder than I thought, but I'll recover fast." She took a deep breath. "Draco's going to be so mad with me." Just thinking of him made her chest constrict with fear, but Ron rubbed her arms, jolting her back to the moment.  
"Later. Worry later," muttered Ron, throwing one of her arms over his shoulders as they began to move down the hallway.  
  
"Think it's time yet?" asked Angelina, shifting her feet. They were waiting in the dark shadows in the ballroom, watching the acrobats in the center of the room. George grimaced as one of the contortionists bent around another person in such a way that shouldn't be possible. It was a fascinating display, actually. The imaginative costumes and erotic theme of the act captured the attention of everyone in the room.  
"No. Do you see Malfoy?"  
"Elder or younger?"  
"Either."  
"Well, Lucius isn't here, but Draco's sitting there," said Angelina, pointing to a table with two people. George looked, gripping his wand tighter. It was almost time.just a few more minutes to give everyone enough time.  
"I hope everyone will be ok."  
George looked sideways at Angelina. She was looking unconcerned, but George had heard the tightness in her voice. "Don't think about Fred, he'll be fine." "Nice advice." "I try." "Some bartender you must be." "I must be." "Yeah, the only person who likes you enough to listen to your advice is Cho, and I don't think she's after advice." "It's time," said George, ending the conversation before Angelina made him too flustered to work. They stood up and moved to opposite ends of the ballroom. Aiming for a cluster of lights, George said, "Relashio!", unleashing jets of fiery sparks into the air as Angelina did the same thing. The lights dimmed noticeably. Some people looked around, confused, but most continued to watch the act before them.  
Angelina kept taking out the lights when George sent several streaks of fire into the air. That got their attention, he thought as the acrobats stopped their act and people began to chatter nervously. Now all the lights were down. Another jet of flame leapt from Angelina's wand and settled onto the nearest tables. Some of them were empty, but a few were occupied. The resulting screams only fueled the chaos as Fred shouted "Incendio!" repeatedly, joining Angelina in torching the ballroom.  
He grinned as women in ridiculous shoes tried to run away and drunken men sloppily drew their wands. Angelina had remembered to lock the doors before they attacked, trapping these witches and wizards in the ballroom. "Stupefy!" he shouted at the nearest wizard who crashed backwards into an elderly witch. They fell, tangled in a heap, blocking the path of several witches behind them. George aimed several Leg-Locker Curses at them, moving around to attempt to create the impression that there were more than two of them fighting. He saw that Angelina was doing quite well with a flame spell and whirlwind spell, creating a pocket of insanity in her part of the ballroom. Sure it's fun now, he told himself grimly as he caught a potbellied wizard with a blasting curse, but once they get back on their feet, we'll have to run.  
  
Once the lights began to dim, Draco looked up from the martini he'd been looking at. He didn't think the performance required a change in lighting, but then he could be mistaken.  
And then total darkness fell on the ballroom. Draco leapt to his feet, wondering what happened. He saw the flames shoot brilliantly through the dark, lingering on several tables. But it wasn't until he heard shouts of "Stupefy" and other curses that he realized someone was attacking the ballroom.  
Just the ballroom? No, that would be silly. Who would attack a ballroom? Maybe this was part of something bigger.maybe a large attack on the castle. An actual sign of resistance, and during the anniversary party too! Draco almost felt elation, excited at the prospect of dealing with those rebel scum, when he remembered Hermione. She might not have made it to his rooms yet.maybe she met one of the attackers in the hallway. In Draco's mind, he saw Hermione forced into submission by someone holding a wand, threatening her with death unless she helped them.  
Making up his mind, Draco quickly made his way through the ballroom, ignoring screaming witches running around like food-starved doxies. Hermione wouldn't do that, he thought, my Hermione would calmly take care of this mess. But she might be threatened. They might hurt her. Mine, my Hermione, mine, not theirs. Not ever. I need to find her and make sure she's ok, that she's still mine. Thinking about what he would do if he found someone else with Hermione, Draco ran through the stone hallways with deaf ears to the bedlam coming from the ballroom behind him.  
  
Lucius toyed with his glass, cursing his son under his breath. He had to hire acrobats and contortionists. If nothing else, Lucius disliked such entertainment for their lack of honesty. A good old-fashioned torture session was always more pleasing to his senses.  
"You know, I think I might have made a mistake," said Voldemort.  
Lucius looked up and saw his master sitting slumped in his chair, staring at the caged Potter. "I didn't think you would be possible of mistakes, master."  
"Don't be pert with me. I gave you your power and I can take it away." Voldemort's threat sounded empty though. In spite of himself, Lucius leaned forward curiously. "I was thinking though, that perhaps things have gotten too quiet here. My Death Eaters are growing old and fat, Lucius. There is nothing to keep them dangerous."  
"Well, when you kill your entire opposition and enact such protective measures, one can hardly expect formidable resistance," said Lucius lightly.  
"You're correct about that."  
"Thank you."  
"I was thinking that it would have been more fun if I had let a few of them stay alive."  
"Hmm?"  
"If perhaps Black or a few of those pesky Order of the Phoenix fools were still alive, they'd certainly be fighting back against me. Without any hope of winning, of course, but still, there would be that element of surprise, maybe they would catch the guards off balance, maybe there would be some excitement."  
Lucius listened to his master go on about how much fun it would be if there were active rebellions against them. He was astonished. Was it possible that his master was bored with complete power? This was a strange concept, but it made sense for Lucius was very bored with the dull life they were now leading. He'd taken to personally booby-trapping the barracks to keep the guards on their toes, but had resigned himself to the fact that there was nothing to be done for their entire society. "Maybe we can accidentally let a few secrets slip and hope that that 'resistance' movement will do something." He stopped as Voldemort sat up suddenly. "What's wrong?"  
The other wizard said, "The wards have all been taken down."  
"What?" asked Lucius, standing up with Voldemort.  
"Not only that, they've been protected with an anti-resetting spell. There are only three people who can do that, and two of them are in this room."  
"That fucking mudblood bitch!" sputtered Lucius. "I'm going to rip every bone out of her body when I catch her!" He started to charge out of the room, but Voldemort held out his hand.  
"I'll get the traitor and teach her what I think of people who betray me. I'm sure she's not working alone. You collect the guards and hunt down her collaborators."  
"With pleasure," he hissed as he followed Voldemort out of the throne room. They passed the ballroom but didn't stop to investigate the noises coming from within. Lucius suspected that someone was terrorizing the guests. Well, I'll just have to put a stop to this, he thought while jogging to the barracks, positive that whatever scum had decided to attack the castle would be finished off shortly. Suddenly, the ground shook and paintings fell off the walls. Another shift in the floor and Lucius was sure that the castle foundations were being attacked. Only a disruption in those could cause mini-quakes like the ones that continued to rock the castle. He felt a murderous rage settle in his chest, thinking, Maybe tonight won't be so boring after all.  
  
"Which way?" panted Ginny. She and Michael were running through corridors that she didn't know. They would certainly be lost if not for the map Michael looked at in his hand.  
"I think left," he said. The slowed down for the turn and jumped back in surprise as they saw Lucius Malfoy yelling at twenty-odd guards in the open space before them. Michael swore, "Oh fuck. Think they saw us?"  
"Maybe. They're not coming after us yet, but I'm sure some of them will becoming down this hallway soon." Ginny's mind raced, wondering what to do. She didn't like the idea of giving up, not when they hadn't even done anything yet.  
"Why don't we split up?" suggested Michael. "You go back the way we came and I'll try to find another route to the library. Maybe you can find something else to do?"  
"I'd like to take care of those spoiled prigs in the ballroom," snarled Ginny, wishing she was throttling a few of the guests right now. Disgusting Death Eaters and their women. "See you later," she said as Michael tiptoed his way as silently as possible to the right. She turned around and began to sprint back to the ballroom, looking for any open doors leading to something breakable. She stumbled as another explosion rocked the castle. Grinning, she figured that Oliver and Penny must have been having a little fun with the castle foundations.  
  
Fred skidded to a stop in front of large metal doors. He had finished racing through a maze of tiny offices and cubicles that he presumed was where wizards worked on sorting through the stuff in the storage areas. If that was indeed what was behind this door, something he wasn't sure about yet. He hadn't yet decided to trust Hermione's word, but for lack of something else to do, he listened to her.  
His breath sounded harsh in the silence. No one was working here, due to the late hour and party going on in another part of the castle. Fred debated silently on the best method to open these doors, then shrugged. Maybe the obvious would work.  
"Alohomora!" To his surprise, the doors swung open. He frowned, thinking that the Death Eaters would have placed stronger locking spells on this door if indeed it guarded valuable objects. Oh, must have been the wards that Hermione took down, thought Fred as he entered the storage area. Maybe she was trustworthy after all.  
He walked through aisles and aisles of shelf stacked twelve feet high, crammed with crates and oddly shaped packages. Curious, Fred stopped and peered at a label. Using his wand to give off some light, he was able to read that this shelf contained samples of hair from almost every person living in Diagon Alley. Horrified, he realized that this collection enabled the Death Eaters to impersonate anyone, at any time. At least there's no polyjuice potion here.  
He moved down the aisle, wondering what other horrors were stored here. He saw crates upon crates crammed with parchments, but he didn't bother to rifle through them. There was a large mirror which showed his face growing older and older by the second until his skeleton showed through the skin and crumbled into dust. A chest that opened with an opening spell held musty clothes that had been elegant once, even though there was suspicious stain on the top garment. Fred didn't touch them, though, fearful of what spells might still lay on the fabric.  
The next aisle had ornate jars with lids. He opened one and saw a fine gray dust. Rubbing a pinch between his fingers, he said, "Ashes. Of what though?" Then he saw that each jar had tiny writing underneath it, spelling out names. Zacharias Smith, Luna Lovegood, Filius Flitwick, Sybyll Trelawney, Amelia Bones, Rabastan Lestrange, Remus Lupin, Severus Snape.  
Fred backed away from those jars, feeling sick as he tried not to wonder what the Death Eaters could be doing with all those human remains. Probably unimaginable research on bringing people back from the dead.or worse. Raising his wand, he shouted, "Incendio!" at the aisle, running back the way he came as flames leapt eagerly through wooden crates and shelves. Within minutes, half the room was being consumed with flames, but Fred knew that was not good enough. Any minute, Death Eaters could find him and put out these flames, salvaging what wouldn't burn quickly. He set off a few more fires, then ran out the room. Swinging the door shut, he locked it with as many locking spells he knew. Then he began to levitate desks and chairs in front of the doors, then used a variation on transfiguration to melt the pieces of furniture together into one huge lump that was impossible to move. Feeling satisfied with his work, Fred turned to find the other storage room located on his map.  
  
The stairs leading down to the dungeons were wet and slippery. Mildew grew on the walls, coating them with slime that squelched every time Neville or Cho touched the wall for balance.  
"It is some unwritten law that dungeons always have to be underground?" complained Cho after she slipped on another step and grabbed onto Neville's arm instead of the wall.  
"Either that or the tallest tower, I think," he said cheerfully. It was easier to be cheerful than to think about what Hermione had said to them before they left. Don't worry too much if most of the prisoners are insane.you might see a few people you know.ignore them because I can promise you they're beyond any hope of salvation.  
"There's the end of the stairs," whispered Cho, readying her wand. Neville nodded and they leaned into the landing quickly, eyes seeking guards.  
Only one wizard remained on duty. He was sitting in a chair, currently having a conversation with one of the prisoners, a dirty scrap of a woman.  
"Won't you buy me a pony? I've always wanted a pony of my very own. My pony. And daddy promised, but he's not here, so won't you do it?" she said. Neville thought she looked to be around forty years old, too old to be asking for a pony, so he concluded that she must be slightly out of her wits.  
"And why do you want a pony? What are you going to name it?" asked the guard, sipping at a wineglass.  
"I'll call her 'Pricilla,' queen of the desert! And we'd ride all day and all night!" The guard snorted into his cup. "I want a pony. Will you buy me a pony?"  
Neville motioned to Cho that they could take the guard without much trouble. He jumped out into the room below, pointed his wand at the guard, and yelled, "Stupefy!" The man barely had time to look at Neville before he slumped onto the floor.  
"Well, that was easy," said Cho, poking around the shelves next to the wall. "Now, do you think they use keys?"  
"I'll try an opening spell, you look for keys," said Neville, turning his wand to the first door with the pony woman. "I'm not here to hurt you. We're going to set you free."  
"Free? What's free? Does that mean you'll get me a pony?" Neville shook his head sadly at the woman and muttered an opening spell. The lock clicked and the door swung open. The woman moved curiously through the opening until Cho motioned to the stairs.  
"If you go up there, you'll find a pony." With childish delight, the woman skipped out of the dungeons. Neville glared at Cho, feeling she was being dishonest, but Cho just shrugged. "I guess that works with the wards down," said Cho. "I'll go this way, you go that way."  
"Ok," he agreed. The next cell held a lump of rags. He unlocked the door and rapped his knuckled on the metal bars. "Hello? I've unlocked the door for you. You're free." The rags did not move, but in the next cell a man began to scream, "Free, let me out, let me OUT, get me out of here, out of this hell, away from them, let me out, free me, let me out, let me hurt, let me out!"  
Neville quickly unlocked the door and stepped out of the man's way. "You're free now."  
The man looked at him with unseeing eyes, running screaming down the hallway, waving his arms in the air. "Free! Out! I'm out!" Other prisoners heard his cry and added their voices to his shrill screams. All Neville could hear were shouts and cries for freedom, people screaming madly, loud sobs, curses. He was horrified that there should be so many people down here. He stood frozen to the ground, unable to move, to act, thinking that if things had turned out a little differently, he could have been trapped down in this dungeon. Because the Death Eaters tortured his parents, they wanted him too, but with help from the Weasleys, he was smuggled into Diagon Alley. But this could have happened to him. He could have been a part of this insane madhouse, victim to who knows what.  
"Neville! Get to work!" Cho's sharp words cut through the fog in Neville's mind. He shook his head, feeling foolish for dwelling on the past.  
Now he ran to the next door and opened it, saying, "You're free to escape. Destroy things! Go!" Neville tried to avoid being trampled as the prisoners ran madly out of their cells. Once a man clung to his clothes, begging for help, repeating the same words over and over until Neville was forced to shake him off. It took forever for him to reach the end of the hallway, where garbage was caked into the floor and the stench caused him to breathe through his mouth. Covering his mouth with his hand, Neville jogged back to the middle where he and Cho split up. She was already there, riffling through a stack of papers on the shelf.  
"My end was shorter, I think. Look at these, they're prisoner manifestos." She handed him a parchment, neatly lined and filled in with tidy handwriting. He scanned it, then looked at Cho.  
"I recognize about half of these names," he said, feeling sick to his stomach. Abbot, Creevy, Finnegan, Blarny, Hooch, Figg, MacMillian. The list went on for at least five more feet of parchment, but Neville couldn't look any more. He sagged against the wall, not caring that his waiter uniform was slimed with mildew. So many names he knew-friends and their families, must have been keep underground in this cesspool. Suddenly he stood up, filled with morbid curiosity. St. Mungo's hospital had been attacked and all the patients vanished shortly after Voldemort's initial attack. What if the patients came here for research and entertainment purposes? He muttered a search spell, naming "Longbottom" as the search word. A shimmering light flittered over the parchment, moving down the length of it until it stopped about one foot in. Holding the parchment up to his face with shaking hands, Neville read, "Longbottom, Frank and Mary, Insanity due to Cruciatus Curse Use, Subject for Research on Tolerance of Pain., Primary Objective: Determine if subjects can respond to pain, and if they can, how much they can withstand. Secondary Objective: Determine if subjects can make an ideal soldier capable of following orders without fear of pain or death. Data: See files in Storage Area G. Termination of Study: After one year of research, I have gathered enough data and the subjects are no longer needed. They will be disposed of to provide food for the hellhounds. Signed, Nott.  
Neville looked up from the parchment with tears wet on his cheeks. "They tortured my parents for research until they killed them, Cho."  
"What?" cried Cho, grabbing at the parchment. She read through it rapidly, then looked at Neville.  
He buried his face in his hands, crying, "I know they didn't know me, but they were good people. They didn't deserve this."  
"At least no one can hurt them anymore," said Cho, tenderly placing a hand on Neville's shoulder. "And from the looks of these records, your parents sound like they got off lightly. I've found the record for these present prisoners detailing what's been done to them and it's hideous. All sorts of torture, withholding of food and water, all aimed to understand pain it seems. Someone must be a nasty son of a bitch to do this."  
"You mean all these prisoners are being kept for pain research? To find the limits of the human body?"  
"That, and other things. Like how badly an exploding fluid can really hurt you, or if a person can withstand a banshee's screams and live, or if an adult can be bitten by a werewolf and still live." Cho's voice was bleak. Neville felt the same way, empty inside after hearing about the secret things that had been going on underground while they were living their lives above ground. The words on the parchment sounded crisp and cold, yet if he imagined these things happening to him or any of his friends, Neville's heart seized up with cold and his imagination shut off, unable to envision such things. This discovery drained him of energy and anger. All he wanted to do was sit and weep. He heard Cho sniffle and grabbed one of her hands, trying to smile for her. "Thanks," she said.  
"Let's not stay down here, it's too depressing," he said, standing up.  
"You're right. But first-" She lit a small fire on the shelf, feeding papers into it until it licked at the wood. Neville watched as the records of the people who lived and died in this dank prison curled into ash, then followed Cho out of the dungeons.  
  
They ran down the hallway, not bothering to be quiet. Hermione kept looking over her shoulder, falling behind Ron. He would pause every time they came to an intersection of corridors and after Hermione told him which way to go, he would race ahead of her. She panted with exertion, not used to this much exercise. And in stilettos no less. Hermione was about to ask Ron to slow down when she felt pain lance from her collar through her bones, feeling like white-hot fire searing out her marrow. Screaming, clawing at her collar, she fell to the ground.  
"Hermione!" Ron shouted and ran back to her. She was aware of his arms picking her up for the contact between them hurt her skin, inflaming her nerve endings. "What's wrong?"  
Gritting her teeth, Hermione stopped screaming and tried to breathe instead. "It's m-m-my m-m-mas-master.he's f-found out what I've d-d-done."  
"How?"  
"F-felt it." She clenched her jaw, feeling the pain shift into something more delicate. Instead of lining her bones, it moved outward and settled inside her skin as a painful itch. She wanted to scratch at her skin until it peeled off of her in bloody strips, but she dug her fingers into Ron's shirt instead. This was familiar, she had experienced this before, so she knew better than to tear like her hands ached to do. "Get me to m-my rooms, Ron. Just go." She saw Ron look at her with a horrified look and cried out as he gathered her up in his arms.  
  
Oliver and Penny were slumped together against a closed door, tired yet elated after destroying several of the castle's foundations when they heard a voice say, "Look what I've found, a pair of saboteurs." Oliver leapt in front of Penny to protect her as they both held wands out, but with a shout of "Expelliarmus!" their wands flew into the hands of a wizard who looked like he had recently left the party. He advanced on them, chuckling softly. "I suppose I caught you off guard, so we'll just assume that normally you'd be harder to subdue, hmm?"  
"What are you talking about? We're just servers for the party, who snuck away for a little private time," said Penny as she slipped her arm around Oliver's waist. She felt her pulse quicken and tried to give the wizard a coy smile.  
He just laughed harder. "You think I'll actually believe that? You're dumber than I thought. I think before I take you to Lucius, I'll have a little fun first. Are you two actually lovers or was that just a lie?" Penny felt her cheeks burn and grabbed at Oliver's arm to stop him from charging this wizard. Of course they weren't, but that would have been nice.  
"Don't answer, it doesn't matter. If you were, that only would have made things more interesting." The wizard flicked his wand at Oliver, shouting, "Imperio!" Oliver didn't have time to dodge. As the spell hit him, Penny jumped away.  
"Oliver! Fight it off! You can do it!" she shouted at him as the wizard tossed Oliver his wand. He turned to her with a cruel sneer on his lips.  
"And now your wand," said the wizard as he tossed a wand to her. "If you want to live, I suggest you fight," he suggested as she stood there unmoving. What is he doing, giving me my wand back? I can use it against him, she thought, thinking about this wizard and forgetting about Oliver.  
With a feral shout, Oliver lunged for her. Penny shrieked and shouted, "Pertificus Totalus!", but he dodged it with unnatural speed. He caught her arm and twisted it behind her back. "Oliver," she sobbed. "Stop hurting me, I'm Penny, remember? You have to fight off the curse, you have to, please."  
But Oliver wasn't listening to her. His hands reached up to close around her neck, his mind gone. Gasping, she continued to plead with him until she could barely breath. She knew that the other wizard was controlling him, but it hurt to see her friend's face snarling at her. "I'm sorry," she said and pointed her wand at Oliver, ready to fight for her life, hearing cruel laughter in the background.  
  
Hiding in shadows, Parvati Patil slipped off her shoes and clutched them to her chest. She felt fear, an emotion she was not familiar with. Cursing the people who had been attacking them in the ballroom, she thought, That's why I live with Malcolm, so I wouldn't have to be afraid anymore. Where are those fucking guards? She decided to try and find someone else, preferably a Death Eater, to protect her.  
Walking through the castle, still coughing from smoke inhalation, Parvati still couldn't believe what was happening. She supposed the tiny Resistance that Malcolm and his buddies joked about had finally become bold enough to attack the castle. Fucking upstart rebels. How dare they? How dare they destroy our peace and attack us without provocation!  
She continued to curse inside her head until she heard the sound of booted feet. Pressing up against the wall, Parvati waited until she saw a group of about a dozen Death Eaters guards run down the hallway. One of them stopped when she shouted at them. "Ma'am, are you hurt?"  
"No, just angry. What the fuck is going on? Where is everyone?" she said.  
"Most of the guests are gathered in the courtyard. Carriages are being provided so they can leave. I'll escort you there." The guard took her elbow and led her down the hall.  
"Are you doing something about these rebels?" she asked impatiently.  
"Lord Malfoy has organized the guard. Everyone who dared to attack us will be caught and dealt with."  
"Good," Parvati said, feeling proud that the Death Eaters were retaliating so quickly. She was confident that they would take care of this mess and tonight would become something exciting to gossip about by next week.  
  
Spotting a group of Death Eater guards gathered around the entrance to the ballroom, Ginny slipped into the nearest door. She peered around the room, finding no one present. After shutting the door, she walked into the room. It was large, with ornate designs in the floor tiles and a large chair, perhaps a throne, coming out of the wall. With a shudder, she realized this had to be Voldemort's throne room. It fit him perfectly she thought, noticing the serpent motif repeated everywhere, on the floor, the walls, even on the candlesticks.  
"I suppose everyone's busy hunting us down," she said, feeling glad that she didn't have to fight anyone at the moment. Yet something shifted in the corner, making a slight rasping noise. Ginny jumped, pulling her wand out. Had she missed a person hiding in here? She advanced cautiously, ready to stun if anyone attacked her.  
When she saw a gilded cage to the side of the throne, she paused. Had the noise come from there? Inside was a pile of rags in a vaguely human-shape. "Hello?" she called. "Is anyone here?"  
The rags moved and became clothes for the man who stood up. Ginny could barely see his face for the tangled mass of black hair that trailed off his scalp and face. She stepped closer, wondering who this filthy person was. She asked, "Can you hear me?" When the man didn't respond, she said, "I'm a friend, ok? I'm going to let you out of this cage." Using her wand, the door to the cage opened.  
"Come here, I'm not gonna hurt you," she said, beckoning to the man. He obeyed, moving out to grasp her hand. Once he was close enough, Ginny pushed back some of his hair, trying to see his eyes. Suddenly she pulled her hand back like she's been burned. On his forehead was a scar in the shape of a lightening bolt and she could see his brilliant green eyes. "Harry?" she croaked, feeling numb. The man swiveled his head, looking past her. "Harry, is it you?" She grabbed his hands, yanking them roughly. "Harry Potter! Can you hear me? Do you understand me?"  
Nothing she said had any effect on him except for when she uttered his name. Then he would show some sign of recognition, but other than that, he just stood still.  
"Harry, what's wrong with you? Why won't you answer me?" Ginny said, thinking aloud. "It's like you can't hear me, or like you're not there." She stopped, feeling her chest grow cold with fear. "You're not all there, are you, Harry? You didn't die four years ago, did you? You've been Kissed," she whispered.  
  
After they fled the oppressive stink of the dungeons, Neville and Cho crept through the castle, successfully avoiding any hysterical party guests and prisoners still running amuck. But they stopped short behind a serpent statue when Cho spotted a group of Death Eaters ahead.  
"Look," she said. "What, there's about a dozen of them?"  
Neville nodded. Cho noticed how pale his face looked and thought that the trip through the dungeons must have shaken her friend up a bit, but as she looked at her hands tightly clenching her wand, she knew that she was just as scared. She whispered, "What should we do? Go around them?"  
"No," said Neville. "Let's try to listen and find out what they're doing." Cho gulped and followed Neville, creeping closer along the wall, closer to those Death Eaters, milling about with their wands out and ugly mouths no doubt uttering vulgar comments about the Resistance.  
".weren't you listening to Lord Malfoy?" said the weasel-looking man closest to where Cho and Neville huddled in the shadows.  
Another man said, "Yeah, but I didn't hear nothing about splitting up like you're saying."  
"Scared, Thom, are you? Of just some rebel scum?" laughed someone else as most of the men chuckled while the second man grimaced.  
The sound of shuffling feet. "I don't mean it like that. Just that these rebels must have something special if they made it inside the castle, you know what I'm saying?"  
"I hear you, but it's not our place to question our orders!" snapped the first man. "Do what I say or instead of those rebels, it will be your head delivered to our Master! So split up and head in different directions. Try to capture them alive for interrogation later, but it's ok to kill them."  
A shifty-looking man smirked. "Interrogation, huh? Sounds like some more prey for the dungeons to me. Is Nott running out of fresh meat?"  
"You could say that," muttered the first man. "Of course, if the prey turn out to be some of those lovely waitresses from the ball, I could get us on dungeon duty for the next few weeks."  
"Ha! You like to watch too!" The shifty-looking man nudged the other man as they both laughed, a sound that skittered down Cho's back like hairy insect legs. She shuddered, feeling sick at the thought of what would happen to her if she was captured.  
The men kept talking and making jokes, stalling before they spit up to find us, thought Cho. She looked at Neville. "What should we do?"  
He edged away from the Death Eaters so they could whisper with less risk of getting caught. "They're going to split up and hunt us down. And because they probably know the castle better than we do, they'll find us."  
"Just tell me your idea before they hear us!" She glared at him, irritated that he wasted time reiterating the things she already knew.  
Neville set his jaw and said, "We have to stop this group from finding anyone else, who might still need time."  
"What?" squeaked Cho. "Just us, two against the twelve of them? Oh, yeah, that'll work. Brilliant. We're going to die in this hallway in less than five minutes, aren't we?"  
"If you want to surrender and be taken alive back down to those prison cells, go ahead!" whispered Neville, his eyes flashing at Cho. "But I refuse to give up and I refuse to be treated like something less than a person, like all those prisoners we saw. Like my parents. So either shut the hell up and help me, or go out there and surrender like a fucking coward."  
Cho blinked, startled to hear Neville swear or sound so angry. His sweet face and nature disguised the anger and hurt that he hid from everyone so well that it was easy to forget that Neville suffered just as much as the rest of them. She said with a crooked smile, "Sorry, Neville. Don't say things like that. I'm for dying today if you are."  
He cracked a smile at that. Relieved, Cho said, "I'm sure there are more of them." What was a disheartening thought, that the castle might well be crawling with Death Eaters like an infestation of cockroaches. "But if we try to blind them or fill the hallway with smoke, we might be able to pretend there's more than two of us."  
"And block off the hallway." said Neville. "Ready?"  
She nodded. Her wand at ready, Cho followed Neville as they crept back towards the group of Death Eaters. The men looked like they were starting to go their separate ways. Giving Cho a shoulder-squeeze, for luck she presumed, Neville shot a blast of lightning at the ceiling above the group from the shadows, then sprinted to another spot to send random curses into the dust cloud. Cho raised her wand and began to shout "Stupefy!" at any moving shadows, running from place to place, trying to ignore how silly she felt, and concentrating on distracting these Death Eaters while staying alive.  
  
Grimacing as he laid Hermione down on the couch, Ron said, "This ok?"  
Hermione nodded, her face pale except for her lips, which were red from where she was biting earlier. Ron's heart twisted at the memory of Hermione screaming like that, a small, desolate scream that sounded like it had already decided to give up. Instead of staring at Hermione's clenched jaw and the spot where her fingernails were biting into her fists, Ron looked around the room. He presumed it was her room, seeing as she managed to give him enough directions to this place. But it was so cluttered and disheveled.not like the Hermione he knew. Another sign that things had changed.  
"Need anything?" he asked, peering at some dusty scrolls.  
"Ron, li-listen to me." He turned around at Hermione's request as she spoke in breathless sentences. "My m-m-master will find me and comm- mme here so-oon, so we d-don't have time." Ron sank down in front of Hermione so she could focus on his face. He was alarmed at the difficulty she was having in speaking, trying not to imagine what she must be feeling that made her slur her words like that.  
"Time for what? What is it Hermione? Tell me?" He gave her a little shake when she closed her eyes in a grimace.  
Eyes snapping open, Hermione looked at him. All he saw was pain filled brown eyes that he used to know so well and now felt familiar with and at the same time wanted to keep at arm's length. "Time to.to get ready befo-before he c-c-comes." Ron nodded, not really understanding what she was saying. Hopefully Hermione had a plan that would save their skins, just like the old days, despite the pit of fear that told him she didn't.  
  
Running past room after room of offices, Fred tried to make his to another storeroom. He lost the map Hermione gave him somewhere in one of the storerooms almost immediately, probably dropping it in morbid fascination at the hideous objects hidden away in the castle. The last storeroom featured rows of large jars, containing various animals preserved in a clear fluid. The animals' features were pressed up against the glass in a manner that suggested that the animals had grown to maturity inside the glass jars. And the jars sometimes came in strange shapes, producing even more exotic shaped animals. George left whatever food he had eaten that day on the floor before he moved on. After that, he stopped looking inside the storerooms and just set out to destroy them.  
He passed a staircase and was a few paces away from it when he heard footsteps. Instead of looking, George leapt to the side, narrowly missing a bolt of green light. He hit the stone floor and rolled, twisting his body around to face the staircase. A tall, white figure stood on the bottom stair, holding a wand up high. With a second look after he sprang to his feet, George realized that Fleur Delacour was the witch who just tried to kill him.  
"Fleur?" he said incredulously as he backed away, also holding his wand up.  
"And you are one of ze Weasleys, are you not?" Without waiting for his answer, Fleur shouted, "Stupefy!" George jumped aside, feeling a rush of power as the spell missed.  
"You stupid idiot! 'Ow dare you attack ze castle! Who knows 'ow many tings you 'ave destroyed by now!" Fleur screamed as she shot curses and hexes towards George. He tried to send some back to her, but it was all he could do to block Fleur's spells. Ducking behind a corner, he tried to think. But thinking turned out to be not as useful as aiming a few curses of his own around the corner towards Fleur.  
"Give up!"  
George laughed as he tossed another curse at Fleur, feeling pretty sure he missed again. Doesn't matter as long as she can't get near me. He shouted, "You crazy bitch. You think I'm just going to surrender myself immediately, on account of your veela charms I'm sure."  
"Why not?" she shouted back. "Your brother Bill did, before I killed him."  
"You killed my brother?!" roared George, rounding the corner with a blasting charm to keep Fleur back. "You killed Bill? Bitch isn't a foul enough word for you, Fleur!"  
"You're right, you miserable fucker. Why don't you die like a good boy, like your beloved Bill?" she said, laughing at him. George screamed at her, feeling numb with rage. He stopped feeling fear and grief and fatigue, only anger as he dueled with Fleur, dodging her spells and trying his damnedest to kill the vile witch in front of him, not noticing the arrival of Marcus Flint and two other guards. But they stood back, deciding to watch the duel before they stepped in.  
  
Muttering to himself, Draco ran through the halls, counting the doorways in his own way of not getting lost. "Seventy-six, sure to be coming up soon, won't let anything.not to mine.seventy-seven.my lovely.if they've hurt." Images kept flashing through his head, pictures colored like the black and white muggle photos Hermione smuggled into her rooms, little movies inside Draco's head made of gray figures and gray backgrounds upon which red blood splashed vividly. Hermione's blood, he knew. Someone else spilling her crimson life on gray stone. A stranger slicing at her skin. Trying to make her talk. To make her betray him. And then she would die. Lifeless eyes like a doll. Gaping mouth. Wouldn't tell. Stayed strong. Just like he knew she would. His. He made her strong. Good. Just run faster. Get there before she dies. Before you lose-  
Hearing shouts mingled with spells, Draco stopped running and stood still. He craned his head, trying to figure out what was going on. It sounded like a magical duel. Desperate shouts came through clearly to Draco's ears as he walked closer.  
Through smoke and dust, he saw a group of Death Eater guards crouched behind a pile of rubble, firing spells at two figures hidden by the corner. Draco stayed long enough to determine that the guards would apprehend the rebels without delay, then he started running again.  
  
"You're not all there, are you, Harry? You didn't die four years ago, did you? You've been Kissed," Ginny whispered. She felt her heart grow cold as icy fear and shock seeped through her chest.  
"Voldemort didn't kill you. He wanted to keep you alive, as, as a trophy, because that's what you are now, in this cage of yours," she said, motioning to the gilded bars. Harry's eyes followed the movement, then settled back into staring ahead at the wall.  
"You don't even know what I'm saying, do you? Harry! Answer me!" she screamed, then felt tears well up in frustration. "Oh, Harry. This is so perfect for Voldemort, isn't it?" Ginny sighed, sitting down on the floor. Harry copied her awkwardly, flopping next to her feet. "He condemned you to the same fate he suffered when he tried to kill you. All those years he spent wandering the world without a body, just soul.he wanted you to suffer the same fate. And now all that's in front of me is an empty body, right? That's all you are." She talked through her fingers, feeling hot tears drip onto her knees. Ginny knew Harry couldn't possibly understand her words, but it felt better to talk aloud.  
"Just an empty body that he keeps as a trophy," she repeated, raising her head to stare at Harry. She took in his gaunt appearance, shaggy hair, and vacant, dull green eyes. This was just a shade of what Harry had been. This was just his body. There was no spark of life in his eyes, no intelligence lighting up his face. The person she loved along with Ron and Hermione was gone, forever.  
"We always assumed you were killed, Harry," Ginny whispered. She knelt in front of Harry's body, holding one of his hands. "Killed by Voldemort, but this is worse. This is an insult to your memory." Taking her free hand, Ginny slid out her knife from her boot. "I can't let this wrong go on. I hope you understand." Even though her hands trembled, her motions were sure and swift. She raised her knife, and taking hold of Harry's unresisting head with her free hand, Ginny placed the sharp point on his neck and jerked across sharply, feeling tendons give way underneath the metal. Warm blood gushed out of Harry's body as it sagged onto the floor. Ginny let him go, hearing his head crack loudly on the stone floor.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said brokenly, wiping at her eyes with sticky hands. Vaguely, Ginny realized that she was covered in Harry's blood. All she could think was that Harry was really dead. Stumbling, she reached a door and yanked it open without thinking. Cursing her still-blurry eyes, she tried to wipe them again, walking blindly through the doorway and smacking rudely into another person. Blinking back tears and blood, Ginny saw that she had run into Lucius Malfoy.  
"Maybe tonight won't be so bad, now that I've finally found someone to kill," she heard him snarl before his arm whipped out to clasp around her throat. Choking for breath, Ginny tried to raise a leg to kick the taller man, but he freed one hand to punch her hard in the stomach. The room started to go black before she remembered she was still holding her knife. Ginny pulled her hand up between their bodies and dragged the blade shallowly across Malfoy's gut. He gasped, "So the bitch has got claws," throwing her to the floor and kicking her before she could get up. Ginny curled around her side, painfully aware that Malfoy was going to kill her.  
  
"Give up!"  
"Never!"  
"We've caught the rest of your group! Just give up and save yourselves the energy!"  
"What, too scared to come and get us? Bunch of scaredy cats, and here I thought we'd be fighting the fearsome Death Eaters!"  
"Miserable upstarts! You're the bloody cowards, come out and fight like a man! Oh, wait, you're not!"  
George pulled an angry Angelina down behind the table they had turned on its side as an Impedimenta spell just missed taking her head off. She swore loudly, earning laughter from the group of Death Eaters by the doorway. Angelina and George were blocked up against a wall, well away from any exit. After they scared away the silly partygoers, the remaining guests fought back with the killing curse instead of stunning spells. Subsequently, Angelina found herself backed into a corner with no hope of rescue. And I'm stuck with George. she thought morosely, aching for Fred's presence instead of his twin's. At least then Fred might have come up with a ridiculous plan of action for them. But it was beyond the time to think about that, she knew. Right now was the time to fight and run away, if only they could.  
"Hey, look," said George, nudging her shoulder. She looked and saw two men creeping towards them, following the perimeter of the ballroom. The Death Eaters were trying to surround them and attack from behind. Not only where they outnumbered, but the Death Eaters had to force it like this. Bastards, with no sense of honor. Angelina turned back to George and saw grim determination in his face. "Do you want to stay here and hold out together, or make a break for it?"  
"I say we run," she whispered, feeling suddenly tired. Another thing to do that wouldn't work. Just one more mission.  
They looked at each other, muscles tensing, strained breathing. Then George shot off a Hex Deflection charm and both George and Angelina sprinted for the farthest door. She pumped her legs and arms, feeling hot pain lance up her limbs from sitting crouched so long. Hearing a shouted spell, she leapt to the side, missing one stunning spell only to catch the second in her leg. She fell sprawled on the floor, unable to move or run away. She watched as George kept running as a hazy figure. He made it to the door, but a pair of guards caught him before he could get away. They dragged him back to where she lay on the floor and threw him down roughly. Angelina looked at George. His face was closed off, emotionless now. Blinking back tears, she heard footsteps approaching.  
"Seems like you're not much good at anything, are you?" laughed a low voice. Angelina closed her eyes, unable to block out his voice saying, "But I'll bet you're good at dying."  
  
"Oliver! Listen to me! You don't have to do this! Stop it!" Penny's hoarse shouts echoed off the stone walls, but failed to sink into Oliver. He advanced on her, expertly dodging her spells and shooting off his own. Dimly, somewhere deep inside, Oliver watched Penny scurry backwards and was alarmed at the frightened look on her face, but he couldn't seem to care. It didn't matter enough to get worked up about. The other voice inside his head was so much louder and made so much more sense that Oliver had forgotten about ever thinking on his own. Distracted now, he tried to remember thinking without the voice telling him what to do. He shook his head, or pretended he did. It didn't work without the voice telling to it. Like now, it was instructing his muscles to walk forwards, moving his mouth to shout spells, allowing him to advance on Penny. Now he was standing right over Penny. Her screams irritated him. Oliver felt his face frown, but didn't feel like he had actually frowned. There it was again, that sensation that he was doing something even though he knew that he wasn't. Perhaps it was like someone else was borrowing his body while he sat in the dark and watched this strange picture show. Yes, that's what it was. Someone needed his body, needed to borrow Oliver Wood, and they left him this lovely movie to watch. It seemed to be somewhat scary. A man trapped the crying and screaming heroine. It sounded like she was saying "Oliver," and he felt a jolt of recognition at hearing his name, then laughed. It was a great coincidence that the villain in the movie had the same name as him. Oliver watched two hands squeeze Penny's neck until she almost stopped struggling. He felt sad for her that she was going to die, but not too sad, for it wasn't real.  
  
"Help me up," said Hermione. Ron immediately placed her arm over his shoulders and helped her stand up. She felt so grateful for his comforting warmth. This was what she needed. "Over there, by that table, take us there."  
They moved over slowly, twisting through her crowded floor. She saw Ron's eyes watch the floor, moving her out of any obstacles. After they passed a six-foot high stack of books, she said, "I apologize for the state of m-my rooms. I wasn't ex-pecting company tonight."  
Ron's quiet chuckle almost made Hermione forget about the poisonous pain still swimming through her body. It was duller now, though, but she couldn't tell if it was because she got used to it or if He reduced the spell. They stopped in front of the table. "What do you want?" he asked, setting her down on the stool.  
"I need to retrieve something," she said, holding out her wand. She closed her eyes, visualizing where she hid it. It was just out of reach until she said the spell, reaching out her other hand at the same time. She closed her fist around the small, metal object. "This," she said, presenting it to Ron.  
"A Time-Turner?" he asked, looking at it, but keeping his hands away.  
  
Hermione turned it in her hand, feeling a small glow of pride at the astonished note in Ron's voice. "My m-master destroyed all Time-Turners after he took over, but I made this one in secret. It's taken me years. And I didn't know when to use it, but now will work."  
"Now?"  
"We can go back in time and change the past so this doesn't happen, so that V-, my master is defeated. We can go back to any year, and this will take both of us. I was too afraid to use it.afraid if someone found it before I got away and what would happen." She dropped a hand to her neck, hiding the bite mark. "But I figure that with my taking down those wards for you all, I'm as good as dead anyway. Maybe I'll be Kissed too and have a gold cage like Harry." Bitter laughter came from her mouth as she thought of how ridiculous the throne room would look with two cages on either side of Voldemort's throne.  
"Harry? What do you mean, Hermione?" asked Ron.  
She cursed silently, having forgotten that Ron didn't know about Harry. "Nothing," she said, waving it away. "I'll tell you later. We've got to go before someone comes to find me."  
"Who?" said Ron, glancing over his shoulder at the still-closed door. "Draco?"  
Hermione nodded, conjuring up a chain for the Time-Turner and placing it around her neck, while saying, "Either him or Lucius or my master. So, ready?"  
Ron smiled and said, "Thought you'd never ask." Hermione felt her heart give a funny hitch and thought that she'd never seen a more beautiful sight that Ron smiling at her. Then she heard the door fly open and saw Draco's furious face in the door. She tucked the metal into the tight opening of her dress where it wouldn't fall out. Ron turned around after seeing the look on her face and moved in front of her protectively.  
"Avada Kadava!" screamed Draco, sending green light into Ron's body. Hermione screamed as he fell to the floor, tugging with weak arms at his shirt. His brown eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. She sobbed into her hands until she felt hands touch at her shoulders.  
"Draco!" Hermione snarled, whirling around to glare at him. The sight of his concerned face infuriated her. What had he done? How could he kill Ron like that? How dare he?  
"Hermione, are you ok? I was so scared for you, I knew they forced you to help them," Draco babbled. "I thought that you were dead, did he hurt you? Let me see you." He reached out for her.  
Screaming with the built-up anger of four years, Hermione lunged at Draco, reaching out her hands for his face. She clawed at his eyes and kicked with her heeled-feet. He tried to get his hands between their bodies, levering for a better grip on her, trying to push her scratching, biting hands away. Wedging a hand against her face, Draco pushed her away from him. He spat, "Bitch!" as she got his jaw with an uppercut before stepping back.  
"Why don't you just kill me too?" yelled Hermione, throwing her arms wide.  
"What are you talking about? What's wrong with you?" said Draco, feeling experimentally at his mouth. His fingers came away stained with red.  
She laughed, an almost hysterical sound, moving close to Draco. He back away, then stopped as she jabbed at his chest with her finger. "Don't you know Draco? Haven't you figured it out yet? All this time and you still haven't gotten it? The only piece of happiness that's come into my life and you kill him!"  
"Do you mean Weasley here?" Hermione only nodded, wanting to rip off Draco's head with her bare hands, hating the sound of his confused voice. "Weasley made you happy? What about us? I don't please you?"  
"You only hurt me."  
"How can you say that? I take care of you," he said, trying to smooth away flyways from her face.  
"Are you that stupid? You think they forced me to help them? Let me tell you something," said Hermione, poking Draco in the chest. "I help them willingly. I'm a traitor. I betrayed the castle's secrets to the Rebellion. What are you going to do about that? Your little toy helped the rebels attack the mighty Death Eaters. Ironic, isn't it?" The completely incredulous look on Draco's face would have been funny if she didn't feel like he had just ripped apart her soul and left a gaping hole in her chest.  
"It's nice to have such a confession," said third voice from the open doorway. Hermione and Draco both looked, seeing Voldemort's towering figure filling up the doorway.  
She cringed, feeling his presence affect her like a physical blow. He looked so angry with her, his eyes narrowed to slits as he glared at her. The full force of his anger made Hermione feel like a puppy that had just made a mess on the floor, or at least she felt like a defenseless puppy. What she had done was much worse than anything a puppy could have done, though. Voldemort made it very clear throughout his reign how he felt about traitors and anyone who betrayed him. Easily, Hermione could think of several grisly examples. Her pulse sped up just thinking about it.  
Voldemort continued to stare at her even after she looked down at the floor, hugging herself tightly. She knew he was waiting for her to crack. He wanted her to say something first, to beg for her life, to plead her innocence, anything, just so he would have the excuse to attack her. But Hermione grit her teeth, figuring that she was going to be tortured horribly no matter what she said, and I don't want to give him the pleasure of making me crack first!  
A strangled voice interrupted the battle of wills between Hermione and Voldemort. "My lord, you are just in time to help me figure out what is going on here," said Draco, looking at Voldemort's face with fear.  
"I think we are all sure what this mudblood has been busy doing tonight, don't we?" said Voldemort. He switched his gaze from Hermione to Draco. She sagged with relief at the moment's respite from those hateful eyes. "And you, Draco, are far more stupid than Lucius and I originally suspected."  
"Wha-what do you mean?" stuttered Draco.  
"Lucius always suspected that you let this mudblood take up too much of your time. And I see he was right. You have been fooled by this filthy bitch ever since you claimed her." Wanting to continue with Hermione, Voldemort turned away from Draco's stricken face.  
But the blond man was shaking his head and saying, "My-my father said that? But-but I thought that, that he finally believed.in me."  
"Your father took you for a fool long before I did," snapped Voldemort. "Long before I should have realized it. You waste my time," he said as he flicked his wand towards Draco. An invisible hand reached out, filling the air with Voldemort's power, and smacked Draco's body across the room. It hit the wall with a sickening thump that made Hermione involuntarily jump. "And you, my mudblood pet, have severely disappointed me, for the last time, I think. You have helped these rebels destroy parts of my castle, correct?" Hermione closed her eyes, hearing Voldemort walk closer to her. His footsteps were agonizingly slow. Step. Pause. Step. Pause. Inches from her ear, Voldemort whispered, "Well? No answer? Crucio!" The tendons in her arms and legs tightened up with pain, and Hermione slumped to the floor, unable to stand. She screamed wordlessly, having long ago given up any dignity while under the Cruciatus curse. It wasn't worth it.  
Eventually, Voldemort said, "Finite Incantatum." She lay twitching on the floor, her dress twisted up around her legs and the elegant twists of her hair tangled. "You helped them destroy the castle?"  
Hermione nodded her head, whimpering at the pain that simple motion caused. Her bones still hurt from the control collar and she felt like she had lost all control of her muscles. The way her fingers still twitched bothered her, but she couldn't stop it. The sound of her master's voice yanked her attention away from her battered nerves.  
"And you took down all the wards, didn't you?" She nodded again. Voldemort chuckled. "You took a big risk, as I'm sure you knew. No matter what happened, if by accident, the rebels were successful, I would have punished you. And if they failed and you were all caught, then I still would have punished you. No matter what happened, I still would catch you. Correct?" He waited until Hermione nodded again before continuing. "I suppose I didn't break you as nearly well enough as I had thought. But enough of that. You're still the failure, aren't you? You've been caught. Your rebel friends are being rounded up as I speak to you. And soon they'll be tortured and killed as examples to the rest of the population. But I won't kill you outright. You're too special for that, my pet." Voldemort grabbed Hermione's scalp and jerked her head up to his face. He shook her as he said, "You betrayed me, pet, and like any pet you will learn from your mistakes. I have put too much time into training you, so don't bother begging for death because as long as I live, so shall you!" As he finished his threat, Voldemort threw Hermione onto the floor violently, laughing as she cracked her head on the floor.  
"Your will, m-m-master," she said, holding the back of her head, sensing that she had finally found a bit of courage inside her, "means nothing to me."  
"What did you say to me?" Voldemort hissed as he readied his wand for another curse.  
Standing up, Hermione whispered, "I said that-that what you want m-m- means nothing to me anym-more."  
"And what gives you that right, pet?" asked Voldemort, placing particular emphasis on the word pet.  
"This!" said Hermione, pulling out the Time-Turner from her neckline. She saw the furious look on Voldemort's face as she grasped the Time- Turner in both hands. His mouth contorted in a feral snarl, his hands moving to lift his wand in a spell.  
She began to turn the Time-Turner, but almost dropped it when she felt arms latch around her shoulders, feeling the cold metal chain around her neck lift up slightly. "Go," whispered Draco in her ear. Holding the Time-Turner confidently in front of her, Hermione flipped it upside down and saw the world become twisted and loose definition. Voldemort's livid expression as he tried to reach her blended into the crowed shelves of Hermione's room. She watched with half-closed eyes as the colors faded from view, the feeling of the floor against her feet eased into nothing, the cold air on her skin vanished, all sensations of the world disappeared except for Draco's arms around her. Before the world became a black, tumbling void, Hermione's dazed mind felt gratitude that she was not going back into the spoiled past alone. 


End file.
